The Exploration of a Friendship
by Tango Fox
Summary: Sherlock & John are both finding living with each other difficult and confusing. Separately and together, they deal with emotional problems, wanting to make the situation as pleasant as possible
1. The Brick Wall

**The Exploration of Friendship**

**My first time writting fanfic instead of usual fiction so would of course appreciate any feedback either on here or via my blog (.). **

**Actually using two sections per chapter as im writing half 3rd person John & half 3rd person Sherlock**

**Thank you for reading and i do hope you enjoy it!**

_Part One_

Sherlock stretched slowly; unsatisfied with the few hours of sleep he had just caught up on. His brain was a mess; he was finding it increasingly difficult to deal with situations that had transpired over the past two months.

Not only was Moriarty and his location impossible to find, every clue, every lead he had followed over the last few weeks had turned up cold. No doubt the madman was setting them up, no doubt he was laughing at Sherlock fruitlessly trying to discover him.

Then of course, there were the problems that had befallen him with Scotland Yard. Lestrade was becoming increasingly frustrated with Sherlock's hunt for Moriarty, desperately urging him to help with other cases. But how could he? How could he let the game end, how could he possibly lend his brilliant mind to such inferior crimes?

Then of course, there was the last problem. The most troubling one. The newfound friendship. Sherlock had spent most of his life alone, preferring to occupy himself with facts and cases, instead of friends. Then, along comes John. A much needed flatmate to help out with the rent, who turned out to be so much more. He had quickly become Sherlock's best friend and his confidant. John Watson was by no means his equal in intellect or deduction, but his medical skills and traits of human emotion added something to Sherlock's work, it made things easier and more enjoyable at times.

At that moment in time Sherlock deducted that they were the perfect team. But how long could it last? He sensed change, and it frustrated him that he could not tell what was going to happen. With no experience in companionship, it was almost as if Sherlock was going into the idea of human interaction blind. Working relationships were so much different; he found it easier to interact with those working under him. And as for his relationship with Mycroft, well, the less said about that, the better.

He began to pace furiously up and down his bedroom. What to do about the whole situation? It was almost like an experiment, a brilliant case for him. It was impossible to give up on something as scrumptiously exciting as an unexplored friendship! New boundaries, new experiences! Perhaps all the things John had been saying to him were right; perhaps there is a little more to life than detective work.

The thought of such a thing made him collapse in a heap upon his bed and tug at his mass of black curls. Above him, he could hear the clatter of John waking and getting ready for work; the noise infuriated him even more. How dare this strange man insert himself into his life and perfectly wonderful routine, and upset the balance without even an afterthought? Sherlock just found the whole thing utterly preposterous, he wasn't going to change his way of living to accommodate anyone. Just as he was about to give up and resolve to spending his days hiding from John until he moved out, he heard a noise from next door. It was decidedly faint to begin with, and then rose to a more audible volume. It was a sound Sherlock had heard many times before, John singing in the shower. All the angry feelings about adding a companion to his life instantly melted away. He realised he enjoyed hearing Johns melodic voice in the morning; it warmed his heart, it provided a much needed breath of fresh air to Sherlock's otherwise rigid and formal lifestyle. John's presence helped him, in more ways than he realised. He was down to two nicotine patches now, something he was sure he couldn't have accomplished in such a stressful time without a welcoming and distracting figure beside him. He also realised how useful it was to have a medical opinion around the house, he always admired those who took the route of a medical profession. Of course he realised his previous worries were ridiculous. John and him would surely get on fine; there was no reason to doubt such a thing.

Sherlock laughed to himself and proceeded to dress, ready to start a new day, ready to face his challenges.


	2. Difficulties Dealing

_Part Two_

John emerged from the bathroom ready for work. He immediately saw Sherlock pacing between his board and the window. John sighed when he realised Sherlock hadn't even noticed John enter the room. He yawned as he shuffled into the kitchen, grabbing a mug as he walked by.

"Do you want a drink Sherlock?" John asked over his shoulder.

As usual he was met with a silence, and as usual he returned to the cupboard to retrieve another mug for Sherlock. John was used to their limited interactions by now, he had learned to not expect decent conversation while Sherlock was working on the Moriarty case. It made him mad seeing him so wrapped up on this man, it was insane! And all the while he had to be the middle man between Sherlock and Lestrade, all because Sherlock was being ridiculous and refusing to accept any other cases.

John really couldn't understand why Sherlock was still desperately chasing him, they hadn't had any leads for weeks now, he was just sending himself into madness by trying to discover Moriarty's hiding place. He couldn't bear living like this much longer. When they first started out as flatmates, sure it was aggravating at times, but mainly it was, well, absolutely brilliant and exciting.

He had never really been a solitary person, he enjoyed the company of others, and when he found himself alone, it definitely wasn't through choice. That's why he had so easily taken up a flat share with Sherlock; it was just better for him and his problems with PTSD to not be alone. When they first began living together everything became much easier, it was as if his war problems just melted away.

However nowadays he was finding things increasingly difficult. Communication with Harry was as strained as always, and since his breakup with Sarah, things at work had been increasingly awkward. Not that he expected it him and Sarah to last very long mind you. John had never had very successful relationships with women; he didn't know why, and he just never clicked with them in the right way.

He poured the two cups of tea absentmindedly, watching Sherlock pace as he did so. John knew things couldn't carry on like this for much longer; their friendship was just becoming more and more strained. John could tell, Sherlock needed a friend right now though. He needed to let someone in and stop being such an egotist. It was like he thought he could solve all the world's problems by himself, just with the flick of bony wrists, when of course it just wasn't possible. All John wanted to do was tell him... just make Sherlock see that it's okay to be human once in a while. He finished making the tea and set the kettle back in his place. Making his way towards the living room, he wondered what Sherlock was intending to do with his day. As a consulting detective with absolutely nobody to consult, surely the day must go slow for him.

He dropped Sherlock's cup onto the windowsill as he sat down in his chair to drink his own.

"Any plans for today Sherlock?" John asked in-between sips.

Again he was met with a mixture of impolite silence this time with added grumbling, aimed at something other than him. John shook his head, growing angrier with Sherlock by the minute. Something had to be done!

Something was decidedly different this morning though, he found Sherlock was acting especially indifferent. Usually John was asked to retrieve something closer to Sherlock than him, or to help relook over a clue; or something along those lines.

But not this morning. This morning he was met with complete indifference from his flatmate, and he had absolutely no idea as to why. John huffed loudly, wondering what he had done - or better yet, not done, to cause this behaviour from Sherlock. Not that he thought it was worth mulling over, he had to be at work in fifteen minutes, and he was sure to be late for work if he didn't set off soon.

"I'm off to work Sherlock, I will see you tonight yes?"

Sherlock turned around on the balls of his feet, and stared at John for a good five seconds.

It was the first time this morning John had even been able to get a proper look of him, what with the pacing and the ignoring that had been taking place. Sherlock looked decidedly dishevelled; his black curls stuck up in all directions as if he had made no effort to tame it, and his purple silk shirt had only the bottom three buttons done up, resulting in the material hanging very loosely from his chest. On one foot he wore a black sock, yet the other was bare. John stared at the usually pristine detective in shock; his mouth might as well have been hanging open. It had been a long while since he had seen Sherlock not looking his usual immaculate self. He didn't have time to comment however, for the moment soon passed, and Sherlock stood with his back to John, staring out of the window once more with his long fingers pressed firmly into his hair.

"Yeah... bye then," Grumbled John.

He didn't wait for Sherlock to reply this time, instead grabbing his coat and quickly leaving the flat.


	3. Reluctant Advice

_Part One_

Sherlock knew John was there the moment he walked in the room. He also knew John thought he was ignoring him. The second the bathroom door opened Sherlock could smell his aftershave even before he heard the noise of his footsteps on the wooden floor. His mind was too busy though for interaction though. John would understand after work he was sure. He needed advice, he, unfortunately for his ego, he needed to heed anothers advice.

"Mrs Hudson!" He shouted down the stairs as he danced to the kitchen to toss his mug into the sink.

She came running up the stairs with a duster and can of polish in each hand.

"Dear Sherlock, whatever is the matter! From your shouting I thought you might be in trouble! Where's John now then? I hope you two haven't been bickering." She glanced around the living room disapprovingly, "My, my, Sherlock, look at the mess this place is, papers and books all over the place..."

Sherlock grabbed her shoulders in an attempt to silence her, a technique which worked on almost anyone. Once Mrs Hudson went off on a tangent it was rather difficult to stop her.

"Oh Mrs Hudson, I am in trouble you see. I can't control this situation, everything is so new! How long have you known me? Quite a while now! Have you ever known me to have a companion? No, never you see. So you see my problem Mrs Hudson, do you see it?"

Mrs Hudson chucked, removing his hands from her shoulders, and sitting him down gently in his chair. She was used to Sherlock's many outrageous outbursts by now, but this was the first time he seemed to be concerned with problems that she could actually help with. It made a nice change from hearing him contstantly worrying over cases which, quite frankly, she had absolutely no way to assist him. She sat across from him quietly, waiting for him to calm down.

Sherlock fidgeted, unable to keep still. He ran his hands through his messy hair and intertwined his fingers behind his head. He leaned back into the chair and stretched his legs, crossing his ankles as he did so.

"Well Mrs Hudson? Please impart your knowledge on me" he sighed, releasing his hands to flick a wrist at her.

She smiled a warm, motherly smile.

"Oh Sherlock you really are silly you know. Being with someone is so simple you know, and I see you and John, you click so well! Remind me of me and my husband before, well..."

Sherlock chuckled with reminiscence. He enjoyed working on the Hudson case; it brought back memories of a happier time, when he was brilliant and not plagued with troubles.

He bounced up to the window, looking out to the street. He knew Johns route to work by heart, of course he did, he knew every street in London. He followed Baker Street as far as his eyes could see, the same path he watched John walk down not twenty minutes to hail a cab. He didn't understand why the whole thing irked him so much. Maybe it was the Moriarty case getting to him but he most certainly wasn't feeling himself. Why else would he be forced to ask for advice from someone else.

Mrs Hudson came up behind him and placed a friendly hand on his arm.

"Come on now dear, just, let things be, you'll see its easy I promise. You really are making things difficult for yourself! Come on now, you and John sit down tonight, have a little chat, and I promise everything will be fine."

She beamed up at him, and Sherlock couldn't help but squeeze her hand with gratitude. Sometimes reassurance was more helpful that he thought it possibly could be. It was nice to be reminded the little details he forgot. Most of the time they were absolutely unnecessary, taking up brain space, he had never needed that knowledge before, and so naturally he never absorbed it.

Sherlock watched Mrs Hudson walk down the stairs with his hands in his pockets and a smile on his face. He turned on his heels and took four long strides towards his board. He looked it up and down with a refreshed attitude. Surely it wouldn't do any harm to follow up the last lead he had on Moriarty, and then afterwards he would treat John with a lovely evening in. No stress, no problems, just John & him enjoying each other's company.

He smiled as he combed his fingers through his thick, black locks while he pulled on his other sock. Buttoning up his shirt he grabbed his coat and wound round his blue scarf. He was ready to find Moriarty.


	4. Babysitting

_Part Two_

John was finding it increasingly hard to concentrate on his last hour of work, knowing he was likely to be returning to Sherlock in the same mood he left him in this morning.

He thumbed through the sheets of paperwork he had left to complete and let out a heavy and troubled sigh. It had been a long time since he had had to deal with someone so difficult. Even when enlisted he found everything so easy; he was the best of the best when it came to medical skills, and sure it was great to exercise his medical skills in cases alongside Sherlock, but even that hadn't happened for a while. It was like both of them were just muddling on and going nowhere, but oh did John want to go somewhere.

He paused and leaned back to steady his thoughts. _Go somewhere?_ What in heaven's name was he thinking. He had known this man just over two months... this strange elusive man, who at times he found hard to even call a friend, let alone...

John shook his head, he didn't even know what was coming over him, what he was even thinking. He concluded he must be tired and ready for an evening of relaxation. Well, as much as was possible living with someone like Sherlock Holmes.

He walked out of his office and popped his head around Sarah's door, only to see her in a similar situation to him; bored to tears with the uneventful afternoon. She looked up at him and smiled a half sleepy smile.

"Oh hey John, finished your paperwork?" She asked, absentmindedly tapping her pencil on her desk.

He shuffled his feet behind the door. While he did have around five or six patient forms to fill in, there was nothing he longed for more than a cup of tea and his chair.

"Yes, just odd things left now," He replied. "Best to be left until tomorrow, I have some follow-ups in the morning"

She nodded, seemingly agreeing with him.

"So I was wondering you know, since I don't have any patients left..." He trailed off

"Oh yes of course John, you're not needed here are you, so by all means go home."

Her tone, while not cold, was rather dismissive. He uttered quick thanks before returning to his office for his coat.

Before leaving he checked his phone to see two unread messages, the first: Lestrade

_John, help us out will you? Talk some sense into Sherlock, we have a double murder that we desperately need his help on. Thanks DI Lestrade._

John considered replying, but he didn't know what Lestrade could possibly expect. Sherlock refused to even look at a case, and John's opinion clearly didn't matter to him. He checked the second message, sent 2 hours ago, from Sherlock.

_Followed the new Golem lead once more. Nothing. Everyone is utterly useless. SH_

To John, that only meant one thing. Returning home he would find Sherlock in his favourite dressing gown, sulking on the sofa like a child. He replied quickly, and rather irritably.

_Stop chasing dead ends. JW_

He knew that would probably make the situation more volatile, but Sherlock was a grown man, and John didn't want to have to deal with his tantrums.

He walked slowly to the street, bidding Sarah good night on his way out. He didn't know what it was with him and women, but it never seemed to work for very long at all. It wasn't even on an emotional level really, he always found conversation stimulating, and always started out expressing his interest. But he had yet to find a partner who satisfied him in every way. Never had he found a woman attractive, engaging and sexually desirable all at the same time. He generally just didn't bother with women, and the short-lived relationship with Sarah and awkwardness after only confirmed his thoughts that he should stay well away from engaging relationships with women.

Sitting back in the taxi, on the short drive to Baker Street he mentally planned out his night. He was sure there would be no food in the flat, as Sherlock had still yet to visit a supermarket, even though he had much more free time than John. He leaned his head backwards in exasperation. Sometimes it really was like living with a child.


	5. The Surprise

_Part One_

Sherlock stood in the hallway to the flat the door shut tight so when John arrived he wouldn't be able to see a thing. Sherlock smirked to himself, for he knew he had easily thrown John off the trail by the reply he got off him via text. It annoyed him that it was too easy to anger John nowadays, but it had most definitely helped him tonight.

He leaned against the door frame, waiting for his return. He had dressed in his favourite blue silk shirt, leaving the top two buttons undone, exposing his throat and the top of his chest. He had paired this with his slim fitting black trousers and dress shoes. He was eager to please John tonight, eager to give him whatever he wanted to. He had pushed Moriarty to the back of his mind for the time being at least, so he could completely focus on being a good friend to John. He knew John had been feeling under stress lately, and quite frankly, it was stupid of him to neglect such a thing. No wonder John hadn't been any help with the case. Not that that was important. Sherlock shook his head, trying to remind himself of his conversation with Mrs Hudson earlier in the day. It was imperative he made a real effort with John if he planned to keep him, and he needed to see him as just more as a tool to help him solve cases.

Sherlock moved away from the doorframe as her heard John arriving and saw him walking up the stairs towards the flat. As soon as he spotted Sherlock he immediately stopped, confused as to what was going on. Sherlock chuckled, satisfied that his attempt to make sure John didn't discover anything was successful.

"Oh what have you done now?" Sighed John, obviously assuming one of Sherlock's madcap experiments had gone terribly wrong and he was attempting to hide it.

Sherlock faked a look of shock and offense, keeping up his ruse.

"John you think so little of me. Come inside, and you will see everything is far from wrong!"

He suppressed a chuckle, and turned the door handle, moving with the door as it opened. Sherlock couldn't help but smile as he saw John's absolutely stunned expression.

Behind the front door was the most surprising and kind thing Sherlock had ever done. The flat was lit only by subtly scented candles, welcoming John home. A pleasant smell of cooking drifted out of the flat, not many were aware of Sherlock's skills in the kitchen. He had prepared a meal he had been taught by one of the finest chefs in London, when he helped him out with a delicate case. For starters he had prepared Lobster ravioli with a lightly spiced consommé, followed by pan-fried monkfish with a side of baby leeks and liquorice sauce. He finished his fantastic meal off with a serving of the finest chocolate crème brulée. He hadn't intended to go so flamboyant and impressive with his cooking, but really, it was the only way he knew how.

He had made sure the flat was spotless too, and even done some grocery shopping before he prepared dinner. On the side sat a 3 bottles of the finest red wine in a cooler, next to two chilled glasses.

With a quick press of a button concealed in his pocket, Tchaikovsky's Violin Concerto began to play softly throughout the flat.

Sherlock was still grinning as John walked slowly in the flat, clearly confused at what was going on. He followed him inside, shutting the door, and then leaning along the wall with his arms folded, watching John drink in the surroundings.

"When you've done gawping, there's wine ready to be served you know," Stated Sherlock with a smug smile on his face and a cheeky glint in his eye.

"What, how, when?" John spluttered

"Oh easy, I had finished working on the case by twelve, no new leads, but of course before you left work you knew that didn't you. I threw you off my trail, quite excellently I might add. You left for work this morning assuming I would be working all day, and believed that you would return home to find me in a foul mood and generally intolerable. Quite simple tactics really, leaving me plenty of time to prepare all this." He gestured towards the flat. "Now then, wine shall we?"

It was Johns turn now to be silent. Sherlock knew his mind games infuriated John, but he was sure he wouldn't stay mad much longer. Good wine and even better company did wonders for a man.

They both sat down at the dining table, and Sherlock poured out two glasses of wine, handing one to John. Sherlock was sure that he was his smiling stare that caused John to uneasily drink his glass in one big gulp.

"Steady John," chuckled Sherlock, pouring him some more "We have plenty of time."

"Plenty of time for what though. I'm a bit confused as to what's going on."

Sherlock suppressed a sigh. He hated having to explain himself, why couldn't people just be as clever as him and understand things?

"We are enjoying each other's company John, without any other distractions. We are talking, we are drinking, and I do hope we are going to have a good time."

"It's just..." John trailed off, but of course Sherlock knew exactly what he was going to say.

"It's just that me doing such a thing is completely out of character. I am human John, and I do like to please others you know."

"Oh, sorry, no I didn't mean it like that," mumbled John, clearly embarrassed. "I just meant, I'm not used to such surprises, and well its really nice, thank you Sherlock."

Sherlock smiled with satisfaction as he leant back in his chair, taking a large sip of his wine.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: I will be uploading the second half of this chapter hopefully tomorrow. I would really appreciate some feedback/constructive criticism for some readers since im new to writing fanfiction!**


	6. The Game

John had been sitting on the sofa with Sherlock for almost twenty minutes now. All the expensive wine had been drunk, along with a cheaper bottle Sherlock had stashed in his room. John laid his head on the top of the sofa, feeling content, and more than a little tipsy.

Sherlock's eyed bored into him. "John you realise we have left my fantastic cuisine untouched? It will be spoiled by now."

John wanted to feel guilty, he did. He knew how much trouble Sherlock had gone through to plan this, but he couldn't feel guilt for very long, he was thoroughly enjoying himself on the sofa with Sherlock, drinking wine and talking.

"Tell me something about you John" asked Sherlock, propping his head up with his hand.

"Oh, um what do you want to know then?"

"How about I ask a question, you give me an answer, and I do too, and then we reverse?"

Sherlock had an incredibly devilish grin on his face, something which made John suggest he was going to regret saying; "Alright then Sherlock, fire away."

"When was your first kiss? Who was it?"

John was slightly taken aback, but honestly he had expected some sort of invasive question. "Jessica Paxman. We were both thirteen. She kissed me when I went over to her house for tea."

"Interesting, very interesting," replied Sherlock – John himself couldn't see what was interesting in the slightest about it.

"And yours?" Asked John.

"Oh, I haven't." Replied Sherlock dismissively. "Your turn for a question."

"Hold up. You've never kissed _anyone_? Haven't you, I mean, ever wanted to?"

"Sometimes, in perhaps a fleeting moment. I have always had more interesting activities to partake in."

"You strange man," laughed John. "What interesting activities might I ask?"

Sherlock looked at him as if the answer was obvious. "Facts john! Beautiful facts of deduction, crimes that need solving, experiments crying out for me"

John laughed. Now he had said it, of course the answer was obvious. "When I was a kid I spent my spare time following my father around actually. He was a doctor."

"Mmm yes I know" Sherlock stretched his legs out in a cat like manner, and then turned to sit facing John with his legs crossed.

"What how do you know? Don't tell me you've used your powers of deduction because it's bloody impossible to figure that out"

This made Sherlock chuckle. "Don't be silly John, why must you assume that deduction is the only way I ever know things. Your father wrote a paper years ago about the effects of tuberculosis on the brain. I came across it at university."

"Of course you did," muttered John. He intended it to be inaudible, but he knew Sherlock would have heard it.

"What's the most daring thing you've ever done John?" asked Sherlock, clearly changing the subject, most likely because, as usual, Sherlock had become bored.

John didn't even have to think about it. "I've been to war Sherlock, how can a man do something more daring that that."

Sherlock just nodded solemnly in agreement. The room was silent for a moment, as if Sherlock was contemplating his next move.

"I cannot answer that question John," replied Sherlock abruptly. "I hope that every day is more daring that the previous one!"

John smiled at his response, such a typical response from him.

Sherlock sat forward. "May I have another turn John?" he asked

"Sure, it's your game isn't it?" He answered, taking another sip of his drink.


	7. A Suprising Proposal

"John have you ever been sexual with another man?" Sherlock asked, most definitely out of the blue.

John almost spat out his wine. "What a ridiculous thing to ask Sherlock, I'm straight, I've only ever been with women, you know that..."

Sherlock leaned closers. His face was so close John could see absolutely every minute detail.

"You've never tried though have you John, never, experimented. Oh don't look away from me John! Experiments are fun and you know they are."

John stared at Sherlock in disbelief. Sure he had seen men and thought they looked attractive, but never had he thought about actually doing something with a man!

"I dare you John, I dare you." Said Sherlock in a rather wicked tone.

"Sherlock, I am straight."

"But you've never even thought about whether you could be honestly attracted to a man have you John? Of course you haven't, I know you. Too scared, too scared to try out new things and live!"

And with that Sherlock firmly planted his lips on Johns.

John sprang up off the sofa, causing Sherlock to topple back. He expected his flatmate to have an angry look on his face, or at least a condescending one, but no, Sherlock sat there beaming up at him.

"Try it John. I've never tried it, you know I haven't. I know you want to think about it, you're just too scared to embrace something different."

John stood still for a few seconds, taking everything in. He had just been kissed, by a man. He had never kissed a man before, never intended to. Indulging Sherlock's request was clearly a bad idea, on all levels. What was he supposed to do, let his drunken flatmate kiss him and maybe more? His head swam at the thought of it.

John hadn't even realised that while he was so deep in thought Sherlock had stood up again and was standing in very close proximity to John

"Tell me John Watson, tell me what you find attractive about a woman" Sherlock asked, his hands at either sides of Johns head, almost touching him, but not quite.

John cleared his throat. "Well, I like tall slender women, who I can make laugh, and who I can stay up all night talking with. I like to be able to look after a lady, while at the same time, being her equal sort of." John shuffled his feet while he spoke. He always tended to do so when nervous.

Sherlock laughed a low deep rumbling sound. John was taken aback, wondering what in heaven's name he was laughing at.

"Oh John, you do realise you just described a female version of me!" Sherlock did a 360 twirl on his heels, looking rather ridiculous as he did so, John thought. "Think about us John really think. First take a look at my appearance." Sherlock gestured at himself.

John looked, he really did look. He saw a man much taller than him, thin, but not without muscle tone. He saw a mass of black curls; he imagined some women would love to have curls like that. But Sherlock wasn't a woman was he; he couldn't feel for a man how he felt for a woman. What did he feel for women? _Oh God,_ John thought, _maybe this is why I always went off the women I dated so quickly._

Sherlock sighed, rather loudly. "Look John I can see the expression on your face. I'm not asking you to put a ring on my finger and dance down the street declaring your love for me. An experiment that's all. Nothing more, nothing less"

"And what...what if I agree? What then?"

"Don't forget John that I have never so much as kissed a girl before, and definitely not a man. I propose we both sit back down, or go in my bedroom if you prefer. And we _experiment_. Experiments are volatile and confusing John, even a genius like me doesn't always know the results. So what do you say John, will you?" Sherlock had outstretched his hand to John while speaking.

John just stared at it, his heart pounding in his chest.

"What about in the morning?"

"In the morning John, this will be no more than a distant memory if the experiment will fail, which by your reactions you assume it will. If that is the case we will carry on as perfectly happy flatmates. I promise you John."

John gulped. Was he going crazy? Was he actually thinking of taking Sherlock's hand? He lifted his hand slightly, but held it nowhere near Sherlock's

"Close your eyes John, if it helps, think of someone else, your favourite actress maybe. Close your eyes, take my hand, and let's go."

John took a deep breath. He closed his eyes, wondering when exactly he had gone mad.


	8. The Experiment

_4-2_

Sherlock led John into his room slowly; John was holding his eyes tight shut.

He didn't know why he suggested such a thing. He had never been sexual with another person, he had never thought romantically about any individual in his life. However he felt an urge, felt he should at least experiment with such a thing once in his life, and what better time to do it than when one is full of alcohol. He wondered why he had never tried anything before, but the truth was, everything else was more important. He didn't need to feel the touch of someone else, or to even be in the company of another human being unless they were providing him with information. But sitting on that sofa with John Watson, sharing stories, enjoying each other's company, everything Mrs Hudson had said, all those little details knitted together in his brain and led to this being the best course of action.

He was scared. Terrified actually, but of course he wouldn't admit that to anybody. He had absolutely no clue what to do, how to make things a success. He didn't even know if he would enjoy it, never mind John. The kiss in the living room was, nice.

_It could have been better._

Sherlock mentally chastised himself for not being perfect at everything. He would have to have a short falling in something he was keen to impress with.

He sat John down on the bed and stared at him. He was glad John refused to open his eyes; otherwise he would see that Sherlock looked like a bag of nerves.

"Now John, relax yourself," Said Sherlock in a velvety voice. "I want you to imagine your here with someone you care deeply about, I want you to imagine you are here with them, and don't say a word. Well of course if I'm making you incredibly uncomfortable say something..."

He sat down next to John on the bed.

"What I'm trying to say is, relax okay, this will be good," He said more for his own benefit than Johns.

John only nodded.

Sherlock lifted up his hand and placed it on John's cheek, turning his head so they were both facing each other. He let his arm fall lightly onto Johns shoulder and he pecked him softly on the lips. He pulled back to see Johns reaction. He sat completely still with the same placid look on his face. Sherlock took it as a good sign that he looks neither repulsed nor angry.

He leaned back in, kissing him for longer this time. It didn't take him long to realise John was kissing him back. He couldn't repress his smile as he deepened his kiss, parting his lips as John did the same. He noticed Johns hands had stopped gripping the bed and moved closer to Sherlock's body. He was still incredibly tense you.

"Relax John, am I doing okay? Is this not enjoyable?" His tenseness worried Sherlock slightly.

John replied in a cracked voice. "Yes... yes."

Sherlock breathed a sigh of relief. He felt so out of depth, everything was new to him, and it made him angry.

This time his kiss to John wasn't so subtle. He was rough; he firmly planted his mouth onto Johns, almost forcing it open. He didn't need to though; John seemed to hungrily accept his mouth. Sherlock shoved one hand into John's hair, twisting it through his fingers, and placing the other on his chest, using it to push John down onto the bed.

Whether it was a reflex or deliberate Sherlock didn't know, but John's hands shot up grabbing Sherlock by his hips. Sherlock placed himself above John, his knees at either side of Johns hips and carried on kissing him.

He found himself enjoying himself. He liked the musky smell of John when he was in such proximity of him. He liked running his fingers through his thick, sandy hair, and he liked how John's rough lips felt against his own.

They kissed for a long time. Sherlock always initiating the kisses, and John, always with his eyes closed. After what seemed like forever, Sherlock could sense John's drowsiness and he could definitely feel tiredness creeping up on himself.

Not breaking the kiss, he moved John up into the bed, laid his head on the pillow, and pulled the duvet over both of them. He laid his head above John's heart, and draped his arm across his stomach.

"Sleep well John," Sherlock whispered, with a smile on his face.


	9. Unwanted Confrontation

_5-1_

John woke up alone with a very large headache, in Sherlock's bed. He didn't think he had ever been more confused in his life. He considered if last night had been a dream, but it couldn't be, it felt so real. He may have been drunk but he could remember thinks, important details. He could remember Sherlock propositioning him, he could remember being in the bedroom. He could remember... he could remember the kissing. He could also remember Sherlock telling him to think of someone else, a woman, but he didn't find himself doing that. He found himself 'experimenting' as it were and thinking of Sherlock. Thinking about Sherlock's long slender fingers in his hair, and how good it felt to be trapped in-between his legs. It was safe to say, he was completely and utterly confused.

He was still dressed, so he made his way straight into the living room, trying to smooth down his hair as he did so. He opened the door to see Sherlock sitting in his armchair writing in a notebook. He had to clear his throat to get Sherlock to look up, even though John knew he would have known the second he got up, never mind when he walked into the room.

"Ah morning John!" Said Sherlock, smiling at him. "I trust you're not too hung-over today, I want to go see Lestrade about that double murder case, and I need you to look at the bodies. This is interesting, I'm sure."

John couldn't help it when his mouth dropped open. Had Sherlock lost the plot? One minute he was obsessed with Moriarty and ignoring John, and now here he was, the morning after he kissed him, happier than ever, acting oblivious, and wanting to work on another case!

"Sit down John, we need to talk tactics, then we can get on with the case," said Sherlock, returning to his notebook.

John ignored his request, instead moving a few steps closer to Sherlock and standing over him.

"You know we need to talk!

Sherlock didn't look up. "Yes about the case I know. Hence why I asked you to take a seat."

"Dammit Sherlock!" Shouted John. The sudden outburst caused Sherlock to shut his notebook and look up, staring John straight in the eye.

"Sit."

John sat across from Sherlock, waiting for him to say something to him, to provide an explanation. Sherlock changed his sitting position, crossing his ankles, and folding his hands over his notebook. It annoyed John to no end how much, sat in that way, Sherlock reminded him of a psychiatrist.

"Don't you dare sit there are try analyse me," Growled John.

Sherlock raised his hands in defence. "I don't know what you mean John. You are the one who wanted to talk, about what I have no idea, but I would much rather we got whatever is troubling you out of the way so I can return to solving this case."

John really wished he could be surprised at this, but it really was a typical answer. Sherlock seemed to be incapable of having a straight conversation.

"Look Sherlock," John sighed. "We need to talk about last night. I mean I know we had drunk a lot of wine, but we kissed Sherlock, and I think it needs to be talked about."

Sherlock's facial expression didn't change. "I don't see what your problem is. I proposed an experiment, you participated, we moved on to the next day. So the double murder; shall we?"

John had to ball his hands into fists to stop him exploding at Sherlock. How could one man be so oblivious and so intelligent at the same time! It was honestly like Sherlock was living on a completely different planet to everyone else, and sometimes John really felt like him and his feelings or opinions didn't matter.

"You are upset John."

"No I am not." He replied curtly.

"Has it escaped your mind that people cannot hide things from me? Every part of your body is screaming at me that something had upset you. Something I have done has upset you."

John didn't quite know what to say. Clearly Sherlock saw last night as no big deal, but how could he dismiss their behaviour so easily?

"Sherlock..." His clenched hands had started to shake, he gripped further to make his nerves and anger less obvious. "Sherlock, last night wasn't normal, it wasn't something we can just ignore, it has to be talked about. "

"John we have never spoken about my experiments before, I don't see why we should start now."

John stood up abruptly. He looked Sherlock in the eye, trying not to shake with anger as he did so.

"Sherlock if you refuse to talk to me about this, I am not going to help you with this case."

"Fine." Sherlock flicked his wrist towards the door. "Leave. You know I like you working by my side John, but if you are going to be stubborn I am not going to stop you."

Without thinking, clouded with confusion and anger, John picked up Sherlock's union jack cushion and hurled it at his head.

"We will talk about this," vowed John, as he stormed out of the flat, leaving Sherlock in silence.


	10. Childish Behavior

_5-2_

Sherlock sat and watched the door for a long time after John had left. He had picked up his violin from the side of the chair, and sat aimlessly plucking the strings, waiting for the door to open. He knew his efforts were fruitless though, John was mad, most definitely too mad to just find his way home. Sherlock sent him a text.

_John, where are you? Come back to the flat. SH_

He sat completely still for twenty minutes waiting for a reply. Nothing. He snatched his phone off the table and sent another.

_Don't ignore me John. Come back now. SH_

His phone buzzed two minutes later.

_Piss off Sherlock_

Sherlock picked up his phone and flung it at the wall in frustration. But that wasn't enough. He was still bubbling with anger and emotions. He grabbed his browning from his drawer and fired three shots into his phone, blasting it into tiny pieces. Much better. He collapsed back in his chair waiting for Mrs Hudson to come and berate him for shooting something. But the staircase remained silent, nobody ascended them. Typical that when he actually wants somebody to complain to, nobody comes running.

This was by no means Sherlock's typical behaviour, and he felt exhausted and weary because of it. It was his own fault really. He could have just sat down with John and talked, but instead he acted as if last night hadn't even happened. The truth was he didn't want to face up to the fact that he enjoyed it more than he should have, and that John was most likely traumatised by it. It didn't think it fair in the slightest that he couldn't enjoy things obliviously, and he wished John had just acted like the whole thing never happened, so Sherlock could enjoy pretending, just for a while.

He slid himself off the chair and landed with a thump on the floor, throwing his head back into the seat cushion of his chair. He knew if anyone saw him now they would say he was acting childish, but he really couldn't care less. He wanted his own way and one way or another he was going to get it. That what just how it worked.

Never in his life had Sherlock shown feelings towards someone other than himself, and he was damned if he was going to let John slip away from his fingers. God why hadn't he just spoken to him this morning! He desperately wanted to tell him how much he enjoyed last night, how he longed to touch him again, how he wanted desperately to kiss him all over all night long, but he was terrified of everything he was doing. He wanted to tell him how he didn't sleep a wink last night, how he spent all night lying on Johns chest listening to the beautiful rhythmic sounds of him sleeping.

_Why John? _He thought to himself, exasperated at working his brain so hard and getting absolutely nowhere. He _should_ be working on the case for Lestrade, he knew that, but every time the thought of looking at it entered his mind, he was filled with frustration with John and everything being so unresolved.

He kicked his feet up in the air, knocking the table over as he did so. He exclaimed in frustration, and rolled over onto his side.

He would sleep here, he decided, and when John returned, they would talk, and Sherlock was determined, everything would be perfect again.


	11. John's Mistake

_6-1_

John had spent most of the day aimlessly wandering London. He had been everywhere he possibly could to stay far away from the flat and its inhabitant. He guessed by now though Sherlock would be with Lestrade out working, or in the morgue with Molly. He felt like hell, almost as bad as he felt when he was shot. Scratch that, he felt _just_ as bad. His heart was beating against his ribcage and he could hear nothing but his blood pumping. His legs felt unable to carry his weight, and his vision blurred frequently. Throughout the day he found himself having to sit down, baffled as to why he was feeling this way. He was a doctor and he knew it was impossible for another human being to have such an effect on you. He just wanted to leave the whole damn thing behind him. He wouldn't have agreed to Sherlock's stupid little experiment if he had known it would have turned out like this. And he definitely wouldn't have let himself enjoy it.

He didn't know where else to go. He had spent the past two hours sat in a pub drinking whiskey. He stumbled out mid-evening not knowing which direction to turn. Couldn't go home, that damned Sherlock would be there. Instead he headed for another familiar place; Sarah's. He picked up his phone on the way there and sent her a text.

_Hey Sarah, busy tonight? Can I come over? John._

Not a minute had passed before she replied.

_I'm in & not busy at all. C U soon xxx_

He took her quick reply to his advances and quickened his pace to her home. He had somehow ended up at a pub within walking distance of her flat

He arrived within five minutes, and found her standing at the door waiting for him. She welcomed him in, and they both sat on the sofa together, both clearly intoxicated.

"Did you come here to talk John?" She asked in a voice which made clear she knew he hadn't.

He only shook his head, moving slightly to be closer to her body.

He kissed her drunkenly, she eagerly reciprocated. He recalled how Sherlock's lips were soft and perfectly formed where Sarah's were too large and chapped. He tried to shake the thought from his head; he thought it ridiculous that he was thinking of his flatmate at a time like this. He tried to focus on the woman sitting next to him. He fumbled quickly with Sarah's shirt buttons, moving his hand towards her breasts.

_God were they always so droopy? _He thought to himself, feeling incredibly turned off by her at that sudden moment.

_Sherlock has a perfect chest, smooth and hard..._ Again he tried to shake himself out of it. It made no sense, the only reason he would ever be thinking about Sherlock at this moment was if, if he was actually attracted to him...

He realised, he didn't want this. He jumped up, stumbling over the sofa, leaving Sarah staring at him wide-eyed, in shock at his sudden actions.

"I'm sorry Sarah, I can't do this," he mumbled apologetically.

"Just leave John," she replied buttoning up her shirt. "I knew this was a mistake. See you at work."

And with that, John was quickly bundled out of her flat and into the street. He was glad for it though, for he didn't want to be anywhere else but in the flat with Sherlock.

He quickly walked to the main road, and hailed a cab to take him back to Baker Street. He sent Sherlock a text to let him know he was on his way back.

_I'm on my way home, let's talk_

No reply.

_Sherlock?_

Again Sherlock didn't reply. He didn't like that, Sherlock always tended to reply to his messages. He told the cabbie he would pay him extra if he hurried. He wanted to be with his friend as quickly as he could.


	12. A Frank Conversation

_6-2_

Sherlock was still lying on the floor with his head in the chair when John returned. He heard John stumble into the flat three minutes before he ascended the stairs and opened the door to the flat. He did not change from his position; he just opened one eye so he could slightly see the door open.

He watched John fumble through the door and into the flat.

"Sherlock? Are you awake?" Asked John, slurring ever so slightly.

Sherlock turned over and sprung up on his heels, landing sat back down on the chair.

"I am John, and I think as much as I would like to talk to you know, I can tell you intoxicated, and I feel we should discuss these matters with a more clear head."

He stood up. "I'm going to bed, but I would very much like to discuss this in the morning with you."

Sherlock began to walk towards his room, but John placed his arm lightly on Sherlock's in an attempt to stop him in his tracks. Sherlock did indeed stop in front of John, looking up trying to read him as he did.

"Please Sherlock, I want to talk now. I haven't had anything to drink for a few hours now, the night air has sobered me up, and I am in a very clear mind."

Sherlock removed John's arm. He did it softly, wrapping his long, slender fingers around John's own and their hands down in the middle of them.

"Let us go sit then John, and talk," He said gesturing towards the sofa. He knew John felt strange about Sherlock grasping his hand in that way, but he didn't let go. He liked the security and comfort it brought to what he guessed would be a stressful moment.

"You know we need to talk about last night now don't you?" John asked.

Sherlock swallowed. "Yes I want to talk about it. Do you want to go first, or shall I?" He still hadn't let go of John's hand, which was now placed on the sofa between them.

"No I want to go first Sherlock, if that's okay." He waited for his flatmate to nod in agreement before he continued talking. "I've had all day to think about how to approach this subject, and I am probably going to regret everything I say, but I will be damned if I keep things to myself only to beat myself up over my silence."

"By all means John, say anything and everything on your mind."

"Last night Sherlock, whatever it was to you, was different for me. It was, well it was nice. "

Sherlock cut in. "that was the idea John. Using imagination and stimulation to create pleasure. By imagining you are in bed with your dream partner and me playing the part of your _ideal woman _stimulating you, I was able to create a clever illusion."

He was lying through his teeth. Last night was purely selfish, purely because he wanted to touch and taste John without consequences. However he didn't want to admit his weakness, and if he could get through this whole incident unscathed and pride intact, well that was much better.

"No Sherlock, you don't understand what I'm saying," John protested. "I wasn't thinking of my perfect partner. Well I was. No I wasn't." He seemed to be mixing up his words, trying to get things out right. "Sherlock I wasn't pretending I was with someone else last night, I just sort of, went with it you know, and it was nice Sherlock." He paused and took a deep breath, then murmured under his breath. "It was really nice."

Sherlock could hardly believe what he was hearing. Was John admitting he enjoyed their encounter? He was so unfamiliar with person human interactions, that he had trouble deciphering the information. With humans in cases, it was different. Figuring out another human and their motives was easy; everyone was just so simple, so stupid. Not John though, not sweet, honest, caring John.

"John, I..." Sherlock started, faltering, not knowing really what to say. "I'm confused at me; I'm confused at what I did and how it makes me feel."

"So am I Sherlock."

This relieved him slightly. "I enjoyed it John, more than you know, this, this shouldn't stop. Not if you don't want it to."

"No I don't want it to stop."

Sherlock moved his fingers so they were locked together with Johns and pressing his fingertips into John's knuckles. He stared at their hands for a while waiting for John to do the same, but his fingers stayed flexed out, not embracing Sherlock's hand as he thought there would.

"Is there something wrong John? Am I misreading the signs?" He asked, confused.

John shook his head quickly, swallowing loudly.

Sherlock didn't like this. _Avoiding eye contact, quick to defend himself, too quick. Attempting to distance physical connection, but not trying to raise alarm bells. _

_Lying. No, not lying guilty, hiding something from me. _

"John what are you not telling me. I know there is something," He said, trying not to sound as confrontational as he normally did.

"Look Sherlock," He started. "Everything I've just said, I mean it okay. I enjoy whatever went on last night and I wouldn't object to nothing ever happening again. It's just I don't want to lie to you. Tonight, I was angry, I was confused. Definitely confused more than anything, I mean you're my flatmate, you're male for Christ's sake! So I went for a drink, then I went over to Sarah's. For sex."

As soon as those last two works were uttered Sherlock tensed his whole body. The pressure he applied on John's knuckles intensified, causing John to shift uncomfortably. His eyes became cold and glazed over; he just stared straight past John, trying to take the information in.

"Listen to me Sherlock, please though. Nothing happened. Well, we kissed, and we were going to do more. Listen Sherlock!" He exclaimed, forcing the detective to look at him. "I stopped, and I left. All I could think of was you damn it. Touching you, kissing you, being with you! I'm sorry, I'm sorry that my first instinct was to run to a woman, when what I wanted was you."

Sherlock sat still, drinking in the new information. Maybe he had no right to be mad, maybe John had no need to apologize. After all, they weren't together. They weren't even anything, just two men who shared a drunken kiss or two. He knew that wasn't true though. There was a connection between them, always had been, that's why they were instantly drawn to each other when they met for the first time. John was _his_. He didn't want anybody else to have him. But the thought of, less than twenty-four hours after they shared a kiss, John running off to someone else with the intention of having sex with them, it bewildered him to no end, leaving his mind in a chaotic, jumbled mess.

"John I'm not sure..." he mumbled. "I'm not quite sure how to take this in, what it means to me."

John shook his head at Sherlock, fiercely this time.

"That doesn't matter Sherlock. Because I came home to you. I will show you what it means to _me."_


	13. Unexplored Territory

_7-1_

John leant forward and kissed Sherlock firmly, stopping the conversation. He half expected Sherlock to push him away. He wished he had never gone to Sarah's, it was a stupid thing to do, and right here, in this moment, he knew that however strange it felt, he wanted to be here with Sherlock.

At first Sherlock didn't kiss him back, but John felt his body relax as he did so. When John softened the kiss, he felt Sherlock moving his lips, kissing John back. John reached up and grabbed Sherlock's collar with his hands, pushing Sherlock down onto the sofa, while he positioned himself above him. He opened his mouth as Sherlock did the same and letting his tongue find Sherlock's, dancing around his mouth. He enjoyed this. Oh he enjoyed it more than he should. Kissing his flatmate, becoming aroused by another man. He had grown up thinking such things were odd, and that he belonged with women, but this beautiful thing, compared with all his failed relationships with females... well he knew which one felt right.

He felt Sherlock's hand move up to his waist causing him to shudder. Sherlock broke the kiss, and gazed into Johns eyes.

"John, I don't want you to do anything you aren't comfortable with."

John leaned down and started kissing Sherlock's neck. He whispered in his ear.

"I want to do this. But I don't want you to be uncomfortable."

Sherlock buried his face in John's hair, still gripping onto him.

"I want to. I'm scared John," murmured Sherlock.

John had never heard him so vulnerable, and the idea that he could protect him, made him feel elated.

"I'm scared too. Let's face our fear together."

John's statement was not met with a reply, instead, Sherlock moaned into John's ear as he carried on kissing his neck. He felt Sherlock snake his legs around his own body, and his hand moving up to rest where upon his chest. He moaned as Sherlock used his legs to pull them closer together, causing their bodies to rub together. John moved back up towards Sherlock's face, taking a moment to smile at him, before returning to kiss his lips, once, twice, then once more, and each time, the smile on his lips grew bigger.

He untangled Sherlock's legs from his body and stood up, offering his hand out for Sherlock to take. As soon as he did he locked their fingers, and led them both into the downstairs bedroom. He slowly removed his jumper, and then set to work untying Sherlock's silk robe, and removing his t-shirt. He led them both to the bed, pulling back the sheets.

They both lay down on the bed, not having said a word to each other since the living room, just looking, staring, and enjoying each other.

Sherlock kissed John lightly, moving his hair out of his face.

"Sherlock?"

"Yes John?" He replied, still playing with John's hair.

"I don't know if you wanted us to, you know, sleep together," He cleared his throat. "I just want to lie here with you; I want us to take our time. Is that okay Sherlock?"

Sherlock moved so his head was resting on John's chest, the same way they both had laid the night before.

"I wouldn't have it any other way than your way John, remember that. Your pace, your rules. All I ask of you for now is that your affection be directed at only one individual."

John buried his face in Sherlock's hair, kissing him, and then inhaling. To John, Sherlock's hair smelled Godly, though he knew he used no scented products in his hair.

"I'm more than happy to oblige to that Sherlock. I know this isn't going to be easy, far from it actually. But hell, I guess I really want to try, because right now is the happiest I have felt in a long time."

"I have never felt this happy," murmured Sherlock.

He sounded half asleep to John. He only responded by burying his face deeper into Sherlock's hair and holding him tighter.

He stayed there until Sherlock fell into a deep sleep. For some reason he felt like he had to wait. The moment made him think of all the times he feared for Sherlock's safety, all the things he had done for him. Shooting the cab driver, threatening Moriarty, everything was to make sure he was safe. He wanted Sherlock to be safe and happy, and he was going to make sure that whether it be as his friend, or as something more that would he would make sure this happened, with every fibre of his being.

It wasn't until the early hours of the morning when John fell asleep. He didn't dream though, and when he had been awake, he felt as if his dream had just begun.


	14. A Very Good Morning

_7-2_

Sherlock woke cradling John's chest. John still slept, soundly, his heavy breathing sounded almost musical to Sherlock. He held on tighter to John's middle, burying his head further in his chest. He enjoyed lying here, as if he didn't have a care in the world. He felt rejuvenated almost, as if he had a fresh pair of eyes.

As he lay there thinking about John, thinking about kissing him, his subconscious was working to piece together the clues Lestrade had given to him. He took pleasure in the situation, he was relaxing his brain and enjoying his activities, yet still he was working on solving the case, and doing better than usual.

John shifted in his sleep as Sherlock wrapped his arms further round his body. He knew his doctor would wake soon. He wanted to enjoy this moment; he didn't get to as much the night before. He was too scared of his feelings and subsequent consequences that he made sure John didn't wake up next to him. He had hardly spent any of his life feeling scared, and he had never considered anyone else's feelings, It just wasn't necessary. But whether it be as his friend or as something more, Sherlock yearned for John to be happy, however ridiculous he felt admitting it. He could see the strain in the man's eyes, the difficulties that he faced every day. But when they were together, working, laughing, having adventures, he could see how different things were. He imagined that's how John acted before his service, when he had no worries and fears. It calmed him that he provided such a positive influence on John.

John began to move about, slowly waking up. Sherlock gazed up at him as he opened his eyes.

"Mmm morning," said John, groggily. "How long have you been awake?"

Sherlock moved off his chest to the side of John, propping himself up with his arm so he could face him.

"On and off most of the night. You are restless when you are sleeping."

He suppressed a smile when John blushed.

"I do?" John replied. "I didn't know. I have... dreams"

Sherlock lifted his other arm to move a piece of hair out of John's eyes. He liked how quickly John's hair grew; it suited him much better like this.

"You seemed to calm down when I put my arms around you." This time it was Sherlock's turn to blush. It embarrassed him slightly admitting his actions.

John didn't respond with words, instead he turned to face away from Sherlock, moulding his body into Sherlock's as he did so. He took hold of Sherlock's hand and draped it across his stomach, holding it there. Sherlock smiled at the gesture, moving slightly so they both fit together.

"Are you tired Sherlock? Go back to sleep if you like."

Sherlock smiled, once again, by John's concern.

"No I'm quite happy lying awake with you like this, it's nice."

"What do you want to do?"

"I was planning on visiting Lestrade today, I have had some thoughts on this case, "he replied.

John chuckled, somewhat nervously. "I didn't exactly mean about today. I meant about us, and what we are going to do."

Sherlock took a moment to ponder what John had just said. He didn't quite know how to answer it. Everything was just so new and unexplored, and he didn't quite know what to do. All he knew at this moment, was that he was happy being in John's company, and he was quite happy not to leave it for the foreseeable future.

"What do you want John?" he asked. "I'm happy with your company."

"So am I Sherlock. But what are we? Are we friends, flatmates, or are we just eventual lovers." John paused. "Or is our relationship, I don't know, something different."

"You mean, are we in a romantic relationship?" Asked Sherlock.

"Yes..."

"John, I think I would like that," he replied. "I don't know how though. You have experience, with women at least, but I have never been emotionally attached to another person, this is unexplored territory for me, and I don't know how to handle that."

"Let's just take things as they come then?"

Sherlock sighed. "I can't do that, the thought of it just infuriates me. I need an end goal, or at the very least an idea of a direction. I'm sorry John; I know I've brought such a terrible situation on you. You know you can walk away at any time."

He meant what he said. It wasn't fair for John to have to endure him. He was inexperienced with people, he was stubborn, selfish, and he was a complete and utter sociopath.

John responded by holding onto Sherlock's hand tighter.

"Then let's set a destination, a plan," He said. "Let's head towards a relationship, a real one, where we are together. But let's consider each other and our inexperience and confusion, can we make sure we take that into consideration?"

Sherlock agreed wholeheartedly with what John was saying. While he wanted to know where they were headed, it was only right that both of them understood how it might end. It was always very unlikely that a first relationship would work long-term, and for both of them, this really was what they were stepping into.

Sherlock leaned into John's shoulders, kissing them softly as he did. He let his eyes drop, he was feeling tired after all.

"I like that idea John," he murmured sleepily. "Now let us stay here for a sort while before the world summons us."

With that, Sherlock buried his head deeper, and felt asleep satisfied.


	15. Back To Work

_8-1_

John followed quickly behind Sherlock as they walked through Scotland Yard towards Lestrade's office. It was a good job neither of them were questioned or security checked, because he was paying absolutely no attention to his surroundings. His eyes were transfixed on the man gliding in front of him, the man who in the shortest time, had changed from being his flatmate to his romantic interest. He wondered how such a thing had happened. He pondered it all the way here too. It just seemed so strange and surreal, but at the same time, it did feel utterly natural. He and Sherlock had connected since day one, and since the beginning everyone had assumed they were a couple. Maybe they always had been, but just refused to admit it to themselves, until it was impossible to resist anymore.

His train of thought was interrupted when he walked straight into Sherlock's back. Sherlock whipped around and stared at John with one eyebrow raised, looking at him with slight confusion.

"Mind occupied elsewhere?" he asked.

John looked at the ground, slightly embarrassed that he hadn't been paying attention.

"Sorry Sherlock, I..." started John, but he was interrupted by Sherlock pulling him round the corner and planting a firm kiss on his mind. John was in complete shock, however Sherlock was grinning ear to ear.

"Sherlock! What in heaven's name are you doing," hissed John.

Sherlock smirked as he held John by his hips.

"Oh just trying something out. I noticed nobody was around, thought the idea seemed exciting, and _dangerous." _He licked his lips at the thought of the last word.

John made a mental note, he was sure it would be beneficial to remember this moment in the future.

"Come on, let's get to Lestrade's before anyone sees us up to no good down a darkened corridor," said John removing Sherlock's hands from his body.

They both walked towards Lestrade's office, both trying to oppress grins.

"It's about bloody time you showed up," Grumbled Lestrade as Sherlock and John sat down in front of his desk. "I've had my best men on this case and we still can't solve it. We can't just sit and wait around for you to feel like solving a murder!"

Sherlock let out a deep sigh, and John knew what was coming.

"Lestrade," began Sherlock. "You did not have your best men on the case, as your best men were busy at Baker Street. They were busy trying to stop a seriously dangerous criminal with a fondness for semtex. Now can you stop being so dull and give me access to the bodies so I can wrap this up."

"Tell me what you've got first," replied Lestrade, sitting at his desk.

"Couple, murdered at their own house, quite grisly, not much left of the bodies. Not for money, they lived a moderate lifestyle, but had debts, credit cards, loans. Their jobs indicate nothing that would warrant murder, a school teacher and a shop manager, hardly careers which create grudges and enemies don't you agree. No children, living 20 miles away from immediate family. Not detached from them, but not so attached they needed to be in each other's pockets. The wife had no noticeable hobbies, perhaps drank a bit too much wine while watching banal reality shows, while the husband went out until the early hours of the morning. From what you have already gathered, the case, and the murderer is painfully obvious. Show me the body and I will show you the criminal."

"How did you even get all that? Brilliant," said John, once again expressing his admiration for Sherlock's skills without thinking. He did this too often, verbally praising Sherlock's intellect, figuratively stroking his ego every time he said something that could be classed as brilliant. He didn't mean to, he just found the man and his work so fascinating. He was glad to be a part of the whole thing; it was certainly more exciting than anything he ever imagined after army life.

John noticed Sherlock hadn't replied, he just leant back in his chair with his hands folded, and a large smirk on his face.

_Typical_ thought John. He really needed to stop; Sherlock was big headed enough without John cheering him on every time.

Lestrade stood up, and John followed suit. Sherlock took his time, lazily standing up and adjusting his suit jacket.

"You've both got ten minutes," Said Lestrade as he picked up a piece of paper, a warrant for the morgue. "Let's go then, before another poor sod gets murdered."


	16. A Poor Choice Of Words

_8-2_

Sherlock swept into the morgue, eager to finish this case quickly. He had hoping getting back into work would be a nice distraction from Moriarty, but not when the case is so dull. All he needed was thirty seconds with the bodies to fit all the pieces together. How was that exciting! Double murder, _big deal_. It wasn't a challenge, and it wasn't Moriarty. It was dull, and a waste of his time. At the very least he should be experimenting with John, not stuck in a morgue listening to Lestrade whine about pointless murders, and Molly shamelessly flirt with him.

_Oh, people are so stupid_ he thought to himself. All he wanted was a challenge; something to make his heart race, and all he felt like doing was falling asleep this case was so boring!

He watched silently as Molly unzipped the two body bags, still babbling on about some trivial matter. He feigned interest, while really he was analysing the bodies, while staring at John out of the corner of his eye. He stood tense, almost too attention, typical behaviour of an ex soldier, unable to relax in a room of death and authority. John noticed him looking and shifted his gaze to the floor. This made Sherlock chuckle internally. He knew John was thinking about them both, most likely about the risky kiss they enjoyed earlier. Personally he had enjoyed it very much. The thought of them both being caught being intimate was the most thrilling moment of the day so far. He planned to re-inact that again, it was fun watching John squirm and enjoy it at the same time. It was fun to have control over him, to put his hands on John's body and restrain him.

Sherlock let his mind wander away from the delicious temptation that was his flatmate, and back to the incredibly dull case.

"Doctor Watson, what can you tell me about the way the wife died?" he asked.

He watched John walk towards the first body and stepped back, silent, waiting for John to figure out the easy cause of death.

"Asphyxiation, fibres surrounding her mouth suggest something like a pillow was used," John deduced.

"And? What else can you tell me?"

John returned back to the body. "Bruises on the backs of her wrists, the positioning of them suggests her attacker came from behind. No fingerprints I'm guessing Molly?" Molly shook her head as an answer. "Then the killer wore gloves, probably someone she knew as apart from those marks there isn't much sign of a struggle."

"And the husband?" asked Sherlock.

John turned around to examine the other body. "Multiple stabbings, fatal wound, most likely stomach, that's the one which goes the deepest. Cuts and bruises over the body suggest he struggled and fought the attacker." Sherlock watched as Johns brain whirred round and round fitting the pieces together. "They were both killed by separate people."

Sherlock smiled. But that was the easy part, he wanted John to figure out by who and why. He had read the case reports well before Sherlock had decided to give them the time of day, this should be easy for him.

"Think about the crime scene John, and think about what I said earlier."

John thought for a while in silence, thinking things over with an intense look on his face.

"There were two wine glasses on the side, both with wine in them, but one set of fingerprints on both."

"And where would the husband be on a Friday night?" Sherlock asked him.

"Gambling, he went to gamble at the weekend, so he wasn't the one the wine was poured for. Someone else was there."

"And? Think John!" urged Sherlock.

"The brother. His alibi stated he didn't get on with his brother, but was friends with the wife."

"Where were the bodies found Lestrade?" Asked Sherlock. He knew the answer already; he just wanted to make sure everyone else could remember.

"The husband was dragged upstairs into the bedroom on the floor, the wife was found on the bed. What does that matter?"

"Stupid!" bellowed Sherlock. "John, figure it out."

It didn't take John long to answer. "The brother came to the house and got in a fight with the husband, ended up stabbing him. Panicking, he dragged him upstairs. The wife found him and became hysterical, and he silenced her in haste with the pillow."

"Excellent!" Shouted Sherlock, positively gleeful. "Now hurry along Lestrade go arrest your man! Don't give me such painfully boring cases next time. This was so simple; any idiot could figure it out. It took John less than ten minutes to tell you what happened!"

Everyone in the room went silent. Sherlock had absolutely no clue why.

"What?" he asked slightly irritated.

"So I'm an idiot am I Sherlock?" Asked John, his psychosomatic limp making an appearance as he walked towards Sherlock. He knew his flatmate was angry, stressed; he wouldn't be limping otherwise.

"John don't be ridiculous all I'm saying was the case was painfully simple."

"Yeah I got that," he sneered. "How about next time you solve the bloody cases alone, and the rest of us will potter around being _simple_."

"I will be glad to!" Retorted Sherlock, raising his voice. He didn't have to stand here and defend himself when he had done nothing wrong. He quickly shoved his hands into his leather gloves and turned on his heels leaving the room alone and in silence, the only audible noise the echo from the door Sherlock slammed behind him.


	17. A Quick Release

_9-1_

Sherlock stormed in the flat, ignoring Mrs Hudson as she came out into the corridor to greet him. He locked the flat door behind him and shook of his coat, throwing it at the window in anger. He paced up and down the living room with an intense glare on his face. He needed to calm himself down, he was absolutely furious

_Stupid humans, _He thought. He hated having to explain himself to others, why couldn't they just see what he saw. Why did they have to get hurt by silly little things which mean absolutely nothing?

He threw himself onto the sofa and ripped off his nicotine patches. Each time it stung as his tore the patch of quickly, leaving a red and raw circular patch of skin. He enjoyed the feeling, but it didn't give him what he desired. He reached under the sofa and brought out a packet of cigarettes and a lighter. He shoved one in his mouth and lit it, inhaling deeply.

With each toke of the cigarette he felt calmer about everything. It took five or six to get him down to normal level. He lay surrounded in a cloud of smoke from his chain-smoking, feeling agitated and incomplete. He was not yet his usual self, and he know only one thing would fix his mood.

He hesitated from moving from the sofa, he knew he shouldn't do what he was about to do. It had been a long time, almost six months now, since he touched the stuff. But he knew, once the urge had entered his body it was almost impossible to resist. He didn't consider himself an addict; he could go months clean, not even thinking about taking anything. But, like everyone, he had those days, where only one thing would make him feel better, and make his problems go away.

He stood up and reached for his skull. He stuck two slender fingers inside and pulled out a small packet. He was always glad that he was clever enough to keep a hidden supply in the flat. He emptied the packet out onto his table, onto the latest book he had been reading: a tattered copy of Unsolved Murders in Victorian Britain by Jonathan Oates. He liked looking at the cases, imagining how simple they would be for him to solve. He took his wallet out of his pocket and withdrew his bank card and a ten-pound note. He returned his wallet to his coat hastily and took up position on the floor. He sat with his legs crossed leant back against the sofa, with his eyes almost closed. He had a routine, one which he had always used, and he didn't really need sight to act it out. He took his bank card in his right hand and divided the powder into three neat lines. He then licked the edge of the card, removing all substance trace before placing it in his pocket. He then took the note, and rolled it up into a tube and one by one, quickly and efficiently, he drew in each line of cocaine, making sure there was no trace left on the surface of the book. He then walked towards the window, opening it slightly, and threw the bank note out into the night air. He was always careful that the only evidence that he was inebriated would be his psychical tells something not even he could avoid.

He lay back down on the sofa and took his moleskine notebook and a pen out of his breast pocket. He could feel the substance's effects begin to take hold of his brain. He felt his heart begin to beat faster and his brain go into overdrive. He had a million thoughts a minute running through him, all he had to do was what he did every time.

He laid there, with his eyes shut, notebook and pen in hand, and concentrated. He shut out all outside noise and thoughts, and focused on picking out the most important words that were screaming at him, and wrote them down.

He sat there with his eyes closed for twenty two minutes. He opened them back up to stare at what he had written down:

_John_

_Games_

_Running_

_Sexual_

_Protection_

_Find Moriarty_

_Love_

_Love_

_Love_

_Love_

_Love_

He threw the book across the room in frustration, of course, it was nonsense he believed. For the first time his technique had failed him.

At that exact moment he heard a key turn in the door. He chastised himself, he had been so busy throwing a tantrum he hadn't even heard the front door, or the stairs.

He could see remorse on Johns face; he could practically smell the guilt oozing out of him. John realised his outburst was ridiculous and quite rightly so. Sherlock had meant no offense by his comment, and John should have known that.

"Are you okay Sherlock?" John asked sheepishly. "I am sorry about earlier, you just, surprised me. I should have acted better."

Sherlock gestured for John to sit with him, and he obliged. Sherlock didn't remember he would look like he was under the influence of drugs, until John sat down next to him, and it was too late.

Sherlock knew as soon as John began to suspect, and he made an effort to scramble off the sofa. John stopped him, pinning him down by his wrists.

"What have you taken Sherlock," He demanded in an authoritive voice.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, trying to make light of the situation.

"Don't be dull John. It's just a little something to help me process my thoughts better. Nothing to harm myself or anyone else."

He thought he was off the hook when John didn't reply. Then he realised John was watching him, studying his symptoms, analysing his reactions. Damn his flatmate for being such a good doctor!

"You've taken cocaine haven't you Sherlock, bloody cocaine!" His grip on Sherlock's wrists tightened so much that it became uncomfortable, causing Sherlock to squirm in an attempt to loosen his hold. "Give it to me Sherlock, before I call the police on you myself. How can you be so damn stupid?"

Sherlock was taken aback when he noticed water begin to collect in John's eyes. He was upset. No, he was concerned, concerned for Sherlock's wellbeing.

"There's none in the flat John," Sherlock said to him in a soft voice. "I promise you that. I am sorry that this distresses you, I am. I only take the substance to help open my mind, nothing else. A purely experimental purpose, nothing else works." John didn't move. "Please John, let go now, you are beginning to hurt me."

Sherlock expected John to move off of him, but instead his loosened his grip, and almost threw himself into Sherlock's chest. He could tell the doctor was trying to hold back emotions. He was saddened and worried, but most of all disappointed. Sherlock responded by wrapping his arms around John.

"Don't you ever, _ever_ take it again Sherlock, do you hear me?" Growled John.

"John I don't know if I can promise that," Sherlock replied. "I take, _it,_ to help me take my mind off more stressful things in the world, I have tried everything, nothing else works, and I would go mad without a release."

"There is one thing you haven't tried," sniffled John, his head still buried in Sherlock's chest.

"What's that?" He asked, freeing his right hand to entangle it in John's hair.

"Me."


	18. Alternative Medicine

_9-2_

John stared at Sherlock as he looked up at him, confused. He had guessed the detective would have trouble deducing the meaning in his previous statement; he seemed to have trouble processing a lot of the things John had been saying to him.

Instead of explaining himself with words, he leant down to trail kisses along Sherlock's long, pale neck. He enjoyed the almost purring sound that involuntarily escaped Sherlock's lips every time he placed his lips on his skin.

"Here is what I am offering you," murmured John, in-between kisses. "Whenever you feel, the urge to take anything, you come to me, and I will satisfy you in other ways."

With that, Sherlock dug his hand further into John's hair, and attempted to twist the other from out of Johns grip. John, however, just held on tighter, using his grip on Sherlock's wrist and his body weight to pin him down onto the sofa. He had been fighting an urge all afternoon to kiss and taste his flatmate; this was reflected in the urgency and firmness of the kisses he was placing upon Sherlock's body. He moved his mouth further down, and flicked his tongue across Sherlock's collarbone. He enjoyed feeling Sherlock shiver under him.

All of a sudden, Sherlock snapped open his eyes; and his mood changed abruptly.

"Enough John," was all he said, in a firm and demanding tone. He did not give John time to answer, he instead he easily twisted his hand out of Johns grip and lacing his fingers firmly with Johns, leading the doctor to believe he didn't have as much of a firm hold as he believed. Sherlock pushed John into a standing position, to which he eagerly complied. He smiled readily and Sherlock led him into the bedroom, with a firm grip on his hand. His mind wandered back to the back, back to where Sherlock had initiated the precarious kiss. He had enjoyed it thoroughly, not being in control. No, that wasn't it, he mentally corrected himself. It was being controlled by Sherlock that he liked, he liked it at work when Sherlock solved the cases, directed him to clues, he liked it even more when Sherlock took control in a more sexual manner.

John barely had time to process what was going on around him, and before he knew it he was laid atop Sherlock's bed, with the man pressed into him, removing his shirt, biting at his shoulders, rubbing his hands all over his body.

He struggled to contain his breathing, and couldn't help when a primal moan escaped his body as Sherlock's hand found its way down his jeans. He moved his hands towards Sherlock, attempting to unbutton his trousers, but Sherlock smacked his hand away and pinned it above his head, tracing fierce kisses down his arm, and then moving onto his lips.

John could hardly contain himself, he felt utterly ecstatic. He whimpered with pleasure as Sherlock sunk his teeth into his bottom lip and wrapped his hand around John, creating further pleasure. John lifted his hips towards Sherlock in response, making a devilish smile appear upon the detectives face.

John used his free hand to grab a hold of Sherlock's dishevelled hair. It was no use even attempting to free his other hand, Sherlock had such a tight grip on his wrist, he was sure there would be marks in the morning. Not that he minded, in the absolute tantalizing slightest, quite the contrary in fact, he enjoyed it much more than he expected.

He buried his hand further in Sherlock's hair and pulled his head down towards his lips.

"I want you Sherlock," he panted into his flatmates ear.

Sherlock didn't utter a word; instead he brought his lips to Johns and began to remove his jeans and underwear. John's body shook with anticipations, and he accepted Sherlock's hungry kisses eagerly.

John felt slightly disappointed when Sherlock's mouth left his, but the feeling soon passed as his detective traced kisses down his body resting in-between his legs.

John began to squirm and groan as Sherlock began to lick and kiss, teasing John as much as he thought was humanely possible. John responded by digging his fingers into Sherlock's back, hard enough to draw blood. Sherlock moaned as he did so, clearly enjoying the sensitive mix of pain and pleasure. He quickened his pace, using his teeth to delicately graze John, causing John to cry out with pleasure. Looking down, John could see the look of joy on Sherlock's face, he took pleasure in gazing into Johns eyes as he reached climax.

John threw his head back onto the pillow in a mixture of exhaustion and satisfaction. He barely had time to collect himself though, as Sherlock moved down and began to kiss his thighs. He glanced down to see Sherlock removing his shirt, slowly in-between kisses, then moving onto his trousers, then finally, his red silken boxers. John marvelled in what an exquisite creature he really was, so lean and pale, elegant and excruciating desirable.

"Can I have you John?" Sherlock asked in-between kisses. "Will you be mine tonight?"

John nodded eagerly, struggling to find his voice. "Yes Sherlock, yes," He breathed. "I want you to."

With that Sherlock flicked his tongue quickly over John, sending shivers through his entire body. He then moved further up John's body, kissing his face. John shifted to place his lips upon Sherlock's, kissing him fiercely and passionately. He couldn't help but gasp when he felt Sherlock insert a long slender finger inside him. It was a new experience, strange and unexplored, but enjoyable nonetheless.

Sherlock continued to explore and lifted his lips to John's ear as he began to pant.

"You are mine John, only mine." He inserted another, sending John's brain into overdrive. "Nobody else's John I hope you understand that."

John could only nod.

"No, "Sherlock growled ferociously as he found a rhythm. "Tell me John Watson, declare yourself mine!"

He didn't wait for an answer, and instead thrust himself quickly into John causing the doctor to cry out noisily.

He began to form a pace, moving to stare into Johns eyes as he did so. John stared back, mesmerised. He was having trouble concentrating on anything other than Sherlock's motions, but forced himself to hold onto Sherlock's gaze, gritting his teeth with force as he did so.

"Tell me you're mine John," snarled Sherlock, his motions becoming quicker, more wild and uncontrolled.

John swallowed, trying desperately to find words. "Yes Sherlock, yes," He moaned, struggling to hold the man's gaze. "I belong to you, only you..."

With that Sherlock threw his head back into the air and let out a feral moan as he reached his pinnacle. John desperately gulped at the air, trying to stop himself from collapsing as the waves of pleasure rushed over him.

At the same time they both seemed to give in, Sherlock collapsing onto john's chest, as John wrapped his arms around him for support. He couldn't hold on much longer, the exhaustion was quickly washing over his body.

The last thing he remembered before he fell asleep was feeling a smile upon his chest, and hearing Sherlock mutter.

"Mine. All mine."

He wondered what life would be like, know the door had been not opened, but blown off its hinges.


	19. A Lapse of Concentration

_10-1_

For the third morning in a row, Sherlock awoke with his head on John's chest. He had slept soundly, as he hoped John had too. He was pretty sure they were both so exhausted last night; they could have slept for days. However he didn't wake because of natural reasons, the rhythmic stroking of his hair in the hands of his flatmate caused his brain to stir and his eyes to flutter open. He let out a purr as John caressed his tangled locks. He leaned his face into John's chest, inhaling his manly scent, and kissing him lightly.

"I heard what you said last night," John spoke, sudden and unexpectedly. "Just before you went to sleep."

Sherlock didn't quite know how to respond. He thought john was already asleep when he declared ownership of the man, he thought himself safe from embarrassment. He cleared his throat, quickly searching his brain for the most logical and least discomforting answer. He replied with the answer which seemed most logical to him.

"You are mine," he replied simply and curtly.

John seemed taken aback by his answer all though Sherlock couldn't understand why. It was plain and simple to him, how could it not be. They had consummated their feelings for one another, to him that meant John belonged to him and only him.

He didn't feel it was necessary to explain himself with words, he found the idea of that dull. Instead he ran his fingers across John's biceps, trailing kisses down his chest with ardour. John murmured with pleasure as Sherlock's kisses became hungrier. Sherlock enjoyed this effect he had over John, he liked to tease him and make him squirm, make him whimper and moan.

He sunk his teeth deep into John's hip, causing the doctor to cry out. John responded by tugging hard at Sherlock's hair, and automatically thrusting his hips towards Sherlock's waiting mouth. He smiled at the reactions he was creating, eagerly taking John in his mouth. His eyes stayed connected with Johns the whole way through, he watched as his partner desperately clutched onto the bed sheets, he watched his pupils dilate and saw beads of sweat begin to form on his forehead. He watched and played, fascinated at the reactions he was causing. He hadn't been able to watch John in detail last night, and he was thoroughly enjoying it this time. He observed as John's legs started to twitch and shake with pleasure, and he responded by pinning them down into the bed, stopping John's movements, teasing him further. Sherlock revelled in the feeling as finally, he felt every muscle in John's body contract against him, and immersed himself in John's orgasm.

After giving himself time to catch his breath, Sherlock crawled back up to the top of the bed, taking a place under John's arm.

"La petit mort," Sherlock muttered, his brain working quicker than ever.

"Hmm?" replied John hazily.

Sherlock brought himself back to earth. "French my dear John, for 'a little death', used often to describe climax. Fitting title wouldn't you agree?"

John chuckled heartily, sending little vibrations through Sherlock's body. "Yes I guess so, although I can't imagine them having the same feelings."

"Quite wrong John, the symptoms of climax and dying are very similar. Imagine how your body reacts, say, when you've been shot, when you feel that hit and hear that bang..."

Sherlock trailed off, and sat up bolt upright. He barely noticed when John sat up; confused, wondering what was wrong. Sherlock closed his eyes, opened his mind, and thought back. Lying on the bed, John coming, teasing John, and watching John's expressions. That was it. He was staring into John's eyes, watching his reactions, when he heard a bang. He didn't register it at the time, not enough to think anything of it, but now, now his brain had been reawakened, he heard that noise louder than anything else.

He threw himself off the bed and without even bothering to dress, he raced into the living room. There on the floor was a box, white, clean & unmarked. On top, was a label, with only the words '_Sherlock Holmes'_ written upon it. He immediately recognised the writing; he had seen it upon a certain letter containing a mobile phone. He fell to his knees to open the box. He knew they contained no explosives, no poisons that could harm him; he would have sensed such a thing as soon as he came into proximity with the box. It was small, and square, big enough to fit an average sized book. Sherlock noticed every detail, found the outsides painfully obvious and not at all clever. However when he opened the box, what he saw, was not at all what he expected.

Lying in the box, he came across a blackened, charred heart. A human heart. He shook with anger, with pure fury. Moriarty or one of his goons had entered his house, planted this _atrocity_ and left without him even noticing. How could he be so stupid! How could he let himself be so vulnerable, so susceptible to threats?

He began to destroy the living room, tearing apart everything that lay in his path. He started with his chair, launching it into the coffee table. He picked up books out of his bookshelf and threw them at the window with force. Every breakable object smashed on the floor, the detective not caring as shards of glass and ceramic pierced his uncovered feet. He moved onto the kitchen, wiping the surfaces clean, and even going to far as to push the refrigerator over on its side, causing the door to fly open and the food to fly out.

It was there where he sank to his knees and began to weep, in anger more than anything. He hardly even noticed when Dr Watson came in; saying nothing, just holding him tight from behind, providing the comfort and security he feared would be his downfall.


	20. The Doctor

_10-2_

John sat on the kitchen floor in silence for a very long time, holding his flatmate tight in his arms. While he initially stayed silent in an attempt to help calm Sherlock down, he continued that way out of pure fear. He knew what was coming, he knew _who_ was coming. Back in the pool Moriarty had vowed to destroy Sherlock, to 'burn his heart' before he eventually killed him. The thought of that sent John's own heart up into his throat, making him unable to say any words he could use to comfort Sherlock. He didn't know what else he could do; he was completely unused to Sherlock behaving in such a manner. The flat was absolutely destroyed, he had no idea how they would pay for the damage. Not that the broken furniture was the most important thing mind, when his flatmate lay cowering in his arms, completely ruined himself. That was something John definitely didn't know how to repair, he didn't even know where to start. If Sherlock was just a patient having a breakdown, it would be easy for John, as a doctor dealing with soldiers and stress, which would be simple. But how could he possibly deal with his companion lying broken and defeated after receiving a chilling death threat.

He began to act mechanically, hardly using his brain, hardly thinking about the matter at hand. He hauled Sherlock up onto his feet; something he knew would be painful for the man with broken shards in his feet. To lessen the pain, he picked up Sherlock, cradling him close to his body. He wasn't light in the slightest, and John's shoulder burned while his muscles flexed. He carried his mate into the bathroom, sitting him down on the edge of the tub and running the hot water. He opened the medicine cabinet and removed an emergency first aid kit, taking out tweezers, antibacterial wipes and a pile of cotton balls. He squeezed Sherlock's had in an attempt to reassure him. The detective hung his head low, covering his face entirely with his mop of hair, but he squeezed John's hand back.

He quickly set to work on Sherlock's wounds, hoping to do the job quickly and space him and unnecessary pain. He worked as fast as he could, pulling out the shards and wiping the cuts mechanically, holding the cotton wool to the wounds if they began to bleed excessively. Throughout the whole process Sherlock stayed silent, even when John extracted the larger and obviously more painful pieces. He kept glancing up, checking his flatmate was okay. After he had pulled out the last piece, he placed Sherlock in the bath, and proceeded to leave. He was stopped by the grip of Sherlock's slender fingers wrapped around his arm. He retreated back and sat on the edge of the bathtub. Sherlock pulled him into a tight embrace, which John eagerly returned.

He often stated, mostly in moments of heated anger, that Sherlock was a child. He was right though, in many aspects. This proud and arrogant man was the most vulnerable creature he had every come across. His honest medical mind drew him to the actions of a suffer of Aspergers, but when he looked at Sherlock, all he saw was someone lost and confused, never with anyone to guide him, to help him. He understood then how hard things would be for Sherlock, his brain working so differently to everyone's, his difficulties with everyday social situations. For once, John didn't envy him and his 'talents'.

He held the man closer to his chest, not caring about the wetness on his shirt, only concerned with making Sherlock feel safe. In that moment, he had never wanted to care for anyone as much as he did for the detective, he was now so aware of how fragile and wrecked the man really was. In the space of an hour, the image he once held had come crashing down, all that was left was shards of glass, scattered everywhere. He was determined though, that he would pick up those shards and piece them back together, and to his very best to ensure they stayed that way.

After a while he untangled himself from Sherlock's arms and began to bathe the man. He knew Sherlock was capable of doing these tasks himself, he just had a powerfully overwhelming urge that he must help, and he must shelter him. He set to work washing him with soapy water, paying special attention to his cut up feet, as Sherlock laid his head back and closed his eyes. All the time, Sherlock had a firm grip on one of Johns hands, their fingers wrapped tightly around each other, locked together firmly.

When he had finished he pulled Sherlock up out of the bath and retrieved a towel. Sherlock attempted to try and dry himself, but it was as if his hands couldn't function on even a simple task like that, John saw it as a symptom of shock, caused by what had just happened. He took the towel off Sherlock and stood up on his toes, putting one hand behind Sherlock's head to bend his face towards him, to kiss him lightly on the forehead as a gesture of intimacy.

They both lay down on the bed, Sherlock shivering, despite the warmth of the flat and the thick bedding that surrounded him; another symptom of shock, John deduced. He stayed there in the bed with Sherlock, holding him tight, every so often kissing him on his cheeks, his forehead, his jaw, until he drifted into what John hoped to be a peaceful sleep.

It was only then he left Sherlock's side, and that was only to clean up the flat to provide peace of mind to the sleeping man, his sleeping man.


	21. Anger

_11-1_

Sherlock awoke to the sight of dazzling sunlight and the sound of cleaning coming from the living room. He lay there for a few seconds, waiting for his brain to wake up. As he did so, the occurrences of the past few hours all came rushing back to him. He remembered waking up with John, and discovering the dreadful package from Moriarty, then, much to his sheer embarrassment and dismay, he remembered how he had broke down. He had not acted that way in many years, and the fact that John had witnessed his episode only humiliated him further. And as much as he wished to bury his head into the pillows and hide in shame, he could not ignore the 'present' he had just been left, and the meaning behind it. The burnt heart, everything Moriarty had threatened, and everything Sherlock had feared. He exited the bed quickly, and dressed himself. Upon attempting to leave the room, he was suddenly barricaded by John, and forcibly pushed down onto the bed. The action most definitely took Sherlock by surprise.

"Get back in bed," instructed John, in an authoritave tone. Sherlock imagined it was a voice similar to one he would've used during his military service. He was momentarily taken aback as his thoughts drifted away onto something of a more wicked nature, but he quickly collected himself when he remembered why he was getting up in the first place. However when he went to address John, he found he couldn't look him in the eye, still mortified from his outburst earlier.

"John," he started, looking out of the window as he spoke, in an attempt to appear nonchalant. "You know perfectly well that I have no choice but to go out to work and catch this despicable man, I am _not_ staying in bed."

His words were cut off as his lips were suddenly occupied with Johns, who was pushing him back down onto the bed. However much he was sure he would enjoy kissing John, he wasn't in the mood.

"John get off me now," he demanded in a cold voice. "I am going to catch him. To stop him."

John shook his head, more times than was necessary.

"Sherlock, do as I say. We can discuss this in the evening, but right now, you are doing what I tell you to do."

The unexpected outburst of authority from John angered Sherlock. Nobody challenged him, and nobody stopped him from doing anything.

"You will get off me now John Watson," he snarled. "Don't you see? Stop being a fool, open your eyes! For heaven's sake if it wasn't for you, for this, I would've known, I would have caught him this morning, stopped him for good." He could taste the venom on his tongue before he even spoke. "You are a liability John, you are clouding my judgement and you are no good for me."

He began to struggle fiercely under John who now had him pinned onto the bed to stop him leaving. He knew as soon as he opened his mouth what he was saying was complete lies, he just needed someone to blame, and he needed John to let him leave, he just hoped his words would kill two birds with one stone.

He noticed as Johns grip got painfully tighter and his eyes became cold and hard.

"You are an utterly ridiculous man," he said, raising his voice, his face very close to Sherlock's. "You bring me into your life as a confused and bewildered flatmate, showing me a life of fucking deduction, over friendly brothers, and serial bombers. You lay on me your mood swings and temper tantrums. You make me fall for you, make me develop feelings for you, you make love to me. You torture me with angry words, and ridiculous experiments, and you then proceed to drive me half mad with worry when you completely break down in front of me. Well guess what Sherlock? I've spent all morning caring for you, looking after you, and I've spent the last two months sticking by your tedious side. So I will be damned if you are not going to listen to me now when I am telling you things for your own good!"

By the time he had finished, John looked like he was on the edge of collapsing. Sherlock knew he was a hard man to deal with, and he never even once thought what a real impact he was having on John, poor John. And now he had lashed out at him, blamed him for things which had nothing to do with him, ultimately blaming him for caring and being a more than wonderful partner. Sherlock didn't know how to answer; he couldn't possibly find the right words to soothe his angry flatmate. Instead he leaned his head upwards and gave him a tender and loving kiss. He parted Johns lips with his own, and kissed him softly, caressing the doctor's tongue with his own. By then, Johns grip on his wrists had loosened, and he could free his arms to wrap them around John, to make himself feel safe, as well as to comfort the doctor. They both melted into each other, kissing and feeling each other's bodies, holding each other tightly and not wishing to let go.

It was hard for Sherlock to remember so many things. He was just so used to solving his own problems with narcotics, not even caring to solve others, this whole situation, oh how overwhelming it was! But as the two kissed, compassionately and softly, Sherlock surrendered himself to the man, knowing that for once in his life, he should bow his head and listen to someone else.


	22. Crime Solving

_11-2_

John sat in the living room waiting for Lestrade to call him back. He flat now looked odd, all the oddments and possessions now sitting in black bags by the door. He had no idea what he was going to do about any of this. Everything was broken, and he wasn't just thinking about the flat.

For starters, he would somehow need more hours at the clinic, need some way to pay for the damage in the flat. Most of the possessions could wait to be re-bought, but some items held higher importance, such as the broken fridge and the cracked window pane.

The problems with Moriarty, he hoped wouldn't be so difficult. He had rung Lestrade earlier to explain the whole situation, and the DI had promised to get right back to him. He hoped that by not involving Sherlock, Moriarty would be less tempted to play games, maybe making him less volatile and easier to predict. He also knew how much of a double-edged sword the situation was, it would be difficult without Sherlock's intellect.

He had decided though, that Sherlock working would do less help than good, he would end up getting himself killed through reckless behaviour in desperation to catch the man; something John would not allow to happen. His mind drifted back to the first week where he worked for Sherlock, he thought of the man he had buried a bullet into, all to save Sherlock's skin. He had no idea what possessed him to protect a stranger – which Sherlock most definitely was at the time, and an extremely odd one at that.

His thought process was interrupted when the phone in his hand buzzed with one new message.

_Meet me at Scotland Yard in 20mins. Don't bring him. Lestrade._

John gazed over to Sherlock's bedroom. He could see him sat on the bed, reading a book on medical examinations, which John had given to him out of his own personal collection. He replied quickly while standing up.

_I'll be there, and I'll bring the box. John W._

He sauntered over to the bedroom and leaned against the doorframe watching his flatmate. Sherlock sat cross-legged in the middle of the king-sized bed, wearing nothing but silken boxer shorts. His long dishevelled hair hung over his face, messy from when John washed it. He seemed genuinely immersed in the book, enjoying facts which John suspected he already knew.

"Enjoying that then are we?" asked John with a grin on his face. Sherlock glanced up at him with a slight smile across his face.

"Rather interesting I must say," he replied. "Are you going somewhere?"

John nodded. "Yes I just have a few things to do; I will be back this evening though"

Sherlock seemingly returned to his book. "I want you." He stated, simply and abruptly.

"You, what?" replied John, faltering slightly with shock.

Sherlock sighed, but continued to stare at his book. "Don't act so shocked John. I'm sexually attracted to you, when you get back from your errands I want to have you. Until then I will sit here patiently and wait."

John couldn't help but chuckle at his honesty. As strange as it was, he was beginning to like this odd relationship him and Sherlock had seemed to develop over the past few days. And if giving himself to Sherlock that night means he would stay in bed and not cause trouble, well that was a bonus.

John bid his goodbyes to Sherlock and set off for Scotland Yard. As the time was now approaching 3pm, it took a little over 25 minutes to reach the building, resulting in John being late. He hurried quickly into the building; Lestrade was waiting for him in the lobby. They both quickly walked up to the office in silence, both of them wanted to keep this case as secret as possible.

When they entered the office John placed the box onto the desk and they both sat down on their respective sides.

"How are we going to approach this John?" asked Lestrade, holding his face with one hand, clearly distressed.

"We can't involve Sherlock," he answered. "Its too dangerous for him to put himself in the line of fire, and besides, I don't feel he is mentally up for dealing with this."

Lestrade nodded in agreement. John was sure he would understand what he was saying; he had worked with Sherlock for many years before John came into the picture.

"Leave the box with me," instructed Lestrade. "I will send it to the lab, test it for fingerprints, but this will take a while John. This man is cleverer than we can even imagine, he won't be caught unless he wants to, or unless he slips up in the stupidest of ways."

John understood what he was saying to him.

"As long as Sherlock isn't in danger of being murdered, that is fine for me, for now. Can we arrange some type of protection? I can't be around to watch all the time."

"No very true, and besides you don't have any sort of weapon to protect the both of you."

John shifted uncomfortably in his chair, thinking of the pistol he kept hidden at home. Lestrade continued talking, not noticing his actions.

"Give me twenty-four hours and I can get a team together. This will all have to be done under the radar; it's all against protocol what we are doing. But maybe watch on Sherlock will help us find Moriarty, or at the very least figure out what his next move is."

"Yes I agree," said John. "The less people who know about this the better. What sort of team are you thinking?"

Lestrade scribbled notes onto a piece of paper. "Two police officers for now, sufficiently armed, but remember John this is not by the book, don't tell anybody what we are doing. Now let me get this sorted, and I will call you tomorrow."

John thanked the inspector for helping, and left the office, making his way to the street. He checked his watch and hauled a taxi, ready to go home to Baker Street.


	23. The Cabbie

_12-1_

John directed his cabbie to Baker Street, asked him to step on it, and laid his head back on the seat. It should take him less than minutes to get back with no traffic; he would stop at the cafe below and pick them both up some food. He knew that Sherlock wouldn't have eaten, he never does unless forced. He wondered if that's how Sherlock managed to stay so slim, but then he had an impressive amount of muscle tone for such a slim man. John found himself impressed by his strength, and the thought of his muscular arms made his mind drift to more sexual thoughts. If someone had told his thirteen year old self he would end up with a man, he would have laughed copiously. But now he found it difficult to imagine another situation, as if it always was. Still thought, he found it strange and awkward and one or two times he had found himself questioning his actions. He was happy though, profusely so. He had always had troubled relationships in the past, and while what he and Sherlock had was not without its problems, it was in a much different way. Those problems and fears didn't make him want to run for the door like he always had, they made him want to plant his feet firmly into the floor.

He lazily opened his eyes and glanced at his watch. He had been in the cab for almost twenty minutes now, surely he should be home? He looked out of the windows, seeing railway tracks on one side and industrial looking buildings on the other. He had absolutely no idea where he was.

"Hey what's going on?" John asked the cabbie angrily, thinking he was being fleeced for a higher fare.

As soon as he spoke the cab driver slammed the brakes on and the car spun, then screeching to a halt. John found himself being propelled forward with force, thankful for his seatbelt. The driver exited the vehicle and opened the rear door, his back turned so John couldn't see his face. He automatically reached for his pistol, cursing himself when he realised his coat pocket was empty, and the weapon lay at home in a drawer. He warily exited the taxi, his mind on full danger alert.

"Who are you?"

The driver didn't turn round. "I'm sad Johnny boy, why don't people remember me!"

John recognised his voice, that Irish drawl was one nobody could mistake. John took out his phone and began dialling emergency services. Just as he started to dial, Moriarty whipped round with a maniacal grin on his face.

"Don't be silly Johnny," he warned. "Look down at your chest, I'm armed and ready. Don't try me, I only want to talk!"

Sure enough, when John glanced down there was a red sniper light above his heart. He gritted his teeth in anger.

"What do you want from me?" he demanded.

Moriarty smirked at his rage.

"I want some questions answering. Simple questions, simple answers. If you don't give them to me, your heart will look the same as you're shoulder. Where is Sherlock?"

"At Scotland Yard with Lestrade," he answered automatically. There was no way he was giving him Sherlock's actual location, and he knew his excellent lying skills should be cast-iron.

"No matter, I'm not after him. Why were _you_ at Scotland Yard?"

"To catch you," John snarled, his patience wearing thin and his worry growing.

"John stop being so dramatic, I'm not going to kill you. Call this visit a friendly warning. I have plans, big things, and you and your detective are _in my way._ Stop searching for me, stop trying to take me down or people will die! When I want you two idiots, I will call and I will come. Until then, I don't exist to you, and if you pursue me, well lots of people are going to go boom Johnny boy!"

At this point Moriarty looked more like a psychopath than anyone ever could. John could tell how much he loved playing this sick game, and how he almost wanted John to threaten him, to give him an excuse to kill more. He didn't give him the satisfaction though, he wouldn't.

"Whatever you want," he snarled. "As long as people don't die Moriarty I don't care what you do."

The man looked positively ecstatic, dancing on the spot almost.

"Good boy! What a wonderful pet you are, pity I can't keep you for myself! Well I better be off, very busy man! Remember what I said John, don't test my awfully good nature."

With that Moriarty got into the taxi and drove away. John began to quickly look around for the sniper; but the dot had vanished and so had its owner. He had no idea if he was truly safe, or even where he was. He knew there would be no point calling someone, mentioning this to anyone. He didn't want people to die. He knew Moriarty was a mad man, but he was also a clever one who actually stuck to his word.

John decided to walk down the long dirt road to what he assumed was the main road. His wallet was in the taxi, he had taken it out to pay what he thought was the cab driver. It seemed he was probably in for a long walk home.


	24. Suitable Treatment

_12-2_

Sherlock glanced over at the clock. It was nearly 8 o'clock, and John had been gone a long time. He grabbed his blackberry off of the bedside table and sent him a text.

_Where are you, you've been hours. SH_

John text back straight away.

_I'll be there in ten minutes._

Sherlock raised an eyebrow at the message. He wondered what John could have been doing all this time. He had expected him to have gone to visit Lestrade, which was painfully obvious; he didn't expect him to be this long though.

_Where have you been? You've been ages. SH_

Again, he replied immediately.

_Sorry, I got caught up and lost track of time. I'll be there soon. Still needing a doctor? Be ready for me if so._

Sherlock grinned at the response. He knew full well that John was using unfair tactics to get him to stop worrying. He quickly typed another message before throwing his phone back onto the table and lying down on the bed.

_Hurry._

His eyes hadn't been closed long at all when he heard John come home. The doctor sounded out of breath and tired, Sherlock imagined he had run here.

"In here doctor!" Sherlock called out grinning.

John made his way into the bedroom, removing his clothes as he made his way over to the bed. Sherlock sat there and watched him, licking his lips in anticipation. John fell onto his knees on the mattress and Sherlock leaned forward. He knew John was expecting a kiss, but as always he wanted to surprise. He leaned in close, inhaling his scent, tracing the air near his skin with his lips. He felt Johns body shudder as he teased.

With one quick and unexpected movement he flipped John flat onto his stomach and held his hands behind his back. With one knee firmly but not aggressively in Johns back, he leaned over to his table, and retrieved a set of handcuffs from the drawer. John noticed his actions, grunting with approval, the mixture of arousal and force rendering him quite speechless. Sherlock turned John over on his back, and handcuffed his hands together and held them down where his stomach was. Sherlock began to nibble at Johns thighs, raking his fingers along his arms. He was rough and hungry, and at that moment he felt like a completely primal being, giving in to all his needs.

He took pleasure in the reactions he caused on Johns naked body as he roughly caressed him. He found himself becoming quickly aroused, and taken by the overwhelming urge to have John.

He removed his own underwear; glad John had completely undressed before he got onto the bed. Sherlock lifted up Johns legs onto his forearms and entered John.

His motions were fast and forceful; the moans of pleasure coming from John only persuaded him to continue with his rough movements. He watched as Johns struggled against the handcuffs, desperately trying to touch Sherlock.

Suddenly John sat up in swift moment to hook his handcuffs around Sherlock's neck and drag him down to the bed, so their faces were touching. They didn't kiss, nor embrace, they just carried as they did before, still fierce and rough, but staring into each other's eyes, noses touching, becoming one with each other.

John buried his fingers deep into Sherlock's back drawing blood, as Sherlock drove himself deeper. He felt his body begin to sway with sheer power and gripped onto John's body to help keep him up. He threw back his head in a primal motion as climax came. As he did so John leaned forward with him, sinking his teeth brutally into Sherlock's neck, only intensifying the pleasure and causing John to reach climax at the same time.

When the moment was over Sherlock's entire body gave way and he collapsed onto John, his neck still held close with John's cuffs.

"John I'm utterly exhausted." He breathed, struggling to compose himself.

"Me, too," replied John. "Although I wouldn't mind if you could regain yourself for long enough to remove these handcuffs?"

Sherlock slid from under Johns hold and retrieved the key from his drawer. He unlocked John and kissed each wrist, before taking a place under John's arm, head resting on his chest.

"You are bleeding Sherlock," John observed. "I should tend to you."

Sherlock chuckled. "You have most certainly tended to me doctor. But these are superficial wounds, treatment isn't needed."

John pressed his face against Sherlock's in agreement, saying nothing more on the matter.

"I had a dream before you came home you know," remarked Sherlock, absentmindedly kissing John's chest.

"Yeah, something good?"

"Moriarty came for me, but you got in the way. Went and got yourself shot."

Sherlock sensed John's body tense up, most likely in fear he deduced.

"Don't worry John, that man will not get anywhere near you, I am to make sure of that."

Still John said nothing, just burying his face further into Sherlock's hair.

"You know maybe my wounds do need attending," remarked Sherlock. "If that before is the treatment you hand out Doctor Watson, who am I to say no to further examination."

Sherlock smiled broadly at his triumphant battle as John lifted Sherlock's head to kiss him and began to let his hands wander.


	25. Threatening Messages

13-1

John sat at his desk propping his face up with his hands, forcing himself not to drift off. He and Sherlock had stayed up late last night and he had only managed to catch a few hours rest before he had to head to the clinic. He really didn't like leaving Sherlock alone, but he didn't really have a choice. He needed to get some cash quickly to pay for the flat repairs, and besides, he hoped that the police officers would be arriving soon to watch over Sherlock and keep Moriarty far away.

He checked his sheets lazily, noting that he was only due to see another patient today. The time was going dreadfully slow, and the lack of work he actually had to do didn't help in the slightest. He just wanted to lay his head down on the desk and sleep until clock off time. Sarah had not said a word to him since he entered the building, and he expected as much. He contemplated telling her about him and Sherlock, but decided against it, not really knowing what to say. He couldn't really say they were partners, could he? Besides, he didn't feel ready to tell the world he was developing feelings for his flatmate. He made a mental note to bring this matter up with Sherlock; he didn't want the detective running around telling people without thinking.

He sat drumming his fingers on his desk, waiting for something to happen, he was so bored, he would even be happy to deal with an overreacting mother and a child with a cold.

He looked up at his computer to see a notification square at the bottom. An email from 'M'. He immediately thought of Mycroft, although he couldn't imagine why he would email instead of calling. He opened it up and read it, the blood draining from his face as his brain registered the message.

_My Dear John,_

_ I hope you are well after our little chat yesterday. I tried to call, looks like you don't want to talk _

_Don't worry I'll be in touch soon, I hope you don't miss me!_

_Jim x_

He stood up in fury, pacing round the room in anger. He didn't know how the scumbag had got his email address, or why he was even contacting him. He couldn't even reply there wasn't even a sender's email address; he had clearly taken precautions to make sure he couldn't be traced. He was infuriated by his helplessness, he knew that one wrong move would result in death for people, and he wouldn't have blood on his hands, no matter what.

He sat back down, seeing another message.

_Does Sherlock hire you out John? I'm in need of a new lapdog._

Then another.

_I do enjoy teasing you John, such a fun game. Bye for now, I'll keep in touch!_

Enraged he shoved all the papers off his desk and sank into his chair. He didn't like how his reaction reminded him of Sherlock's reply to Moriarty's taunting. He held his head in his hands in desperation; he had absolutely no idea what to do about the whole thing. Maybe he could somehow inform Lestrade under the radar.

He reluctantly decided for now, nothing could be done without putting others in danger. He would have to keep quiet until the opportunity to destroy Moriarty and his plans arose.


	26. A Provoking Phonecall

13-2

Sherlock had spent most of the day lazing around the flat in his favourite dressing gown. He currently lay upon the sofa, staring at the ceiling completely consumed with boredom. He had run out of things to occupy himself, and since he had promised John he would stay in the flat until he returned from work.

_How dull, _he thought to himself. There was literally nothing to do that would entertain him. He finished the book John had given him two hours ago. While it wasn't something which contained generally new information, he enjoyed reading a volume which was dear to his roommate. He devoured the weathered and dog-eared book with zeal. It was like seeing into the doctor's intellectual mind, exploring his interests and learning the medical facts he found fascinating. When he had finished with the medical text he lay onto the bed, daydreaming about his flatmate. It was strange how they had come to be flatmates, stranger still how they had come to be lovers. John was the first person Sherlock had met to not respond to his skills with rage and bitterness towards him. Granted to begin with John had been confused at the whole situation, but upon their next meeting, John had complimented and admired Sherlock, the first time such a thing had ever happened. He guessed that was one of the qualities that had drawn him to be seemingly attracted to the man, that and he was brilliantly clever. Not in the same was as Sherlock was, but in a way made up of compassion, energy and bravery. Not many men would shoot to kill for a stranger, or be whisked off to a crime scene by one neither. After everything he had been through, John should have been a withdrawn and solitary character, but instead he was lively and energetic, and Sherlock admired him so.

He didn't feel scared when he was with John, he felt _safe._ He knew he was by far an easy man to deal with and he imagined his outburst the previous day would have been the last straw, would have caused the doctor to leave in fear. Instead the man had stayed and cared for him, made sure he was not alone until he felt less afraid. He felt like John Watson was a complete equal to him, in his work and in his personal life. A man to be admired and never to be underestimated.

After drifting off for an hour or so, he had risen and made his way into the living room, walking around aimlessly. He felt guilty looking round the flat, realising how many things were either broken or completely missing. He made a mental note to replace everything so John wouldn't have to worry. After all, he was to blame. He found it odd that he cared over stupid things such as a broken refrigerator, but really he knew it was John's feelings that concerned him, not the ruined flat.

He had then searched through the cupboards in vain for food, and spent some time gazing out of the window at passers by. It was then, after the sight of the people outside had bored him, he retreated to the sofa, defeated by boredom, clueless as to what to do with himself. He couldn't even conduct an experiment; he had no supplies left in the flat. His mind drifted to supplies he used to keep in the upstairs bedroom, but he was sure John would have removed them by now. He reminded himself that he must ask John how he felt about maybe moving some of his belongings downstairs; if they were to keep up the current arrangement it seemed only logical.

It was then, when Sherlock was on the cusp of jumping out of the window with boredom, he heard a faint ringing. He recognised the noise and the location immediately; John had left his mobile phone sitting by the bedside table. Sherlock walked in to retrieve it, imagining it was probably John ringing from the office for some reason. Illogical since John could have probably rung Sherlock's mobile, but maybe he didn't know the number, or maybe this was the first idea to pop into his head.

He picked up the phone glancing at the screen. _Unknown Number_. Sherlock found this incredibly odd, the clinic number was never unknown, and it was pinned upstairs on John's notice board for when he needed to ring Sarah about work. He resisted answering it, he knew it would be wrong, and rather odd to invade John's privacy and answer his calls. He placed it back down when it stopped ringing, only to pick it back up again when he saw the number had left a voicemail. Of course he couldn't resist _that_, it was as if he had no choice! He dialled the number for voicemail services, and lifted the phone up to his ear.

_Johnny boy why won't you answer! You would think after yesterdays warning you wouldn't be so careless as to ignore me, you know what I'm capable of!_

Sherlock recognised the voice, of course he did, and it disgusted and fascinated him at the same time. He found he was holding the phone all too tightly, not paying attention as the options for the message played through. He threw the phone on the bed, getting dressed quickly as he glanced over at the clock. He had three hours until John got back from work. He closed his eyes, searching the all important section of his brain which held short term memories, remembering the phone call in its entirety.

He heard traffic, in the distance, but not too far, probably a street away. He heard voices, strained to remember them, foreign, Asian, most likely Chinese. He heart clatters, chinks, plates, cutlery. He opened his eyes. He didn't know where exactly the man was, but he knew he was going to make a damn good attempt to find him. He had three hours until John got home from work, and in those three hours he would get Moriarty.


	27. An Empty Flat

14-1

John tried not to dawdle on his way back home from work; he wanted nothing more than to be back at the flat. He had endured an incredibly tedious and awkward day and he was pleased to leave the office. He wasn't sure how long he could deal with Sarah's coldness towards him, even if he did very much deserve it. The prospect of leaving behind her angry stares and returning home where Sherlock was waiting made him want to hurry. Changing his usual routine, he took the bus as he did on the way to work, wanting to avoid getting into cabs for the time being. He was eager to get home, and eager to escape the sea of commuters on their way home. Buses were too crammed; he didn't like being in such close proximity to all these people. He kept checking his watch with frustration every time the bus pulled up at a stop, all he wanted to do was get home to Sherlock.

He was hoping that by now, Lestrade would have dispatched the officers, giving him a slight amount of relief from the worry he was feeling. He strangely trusted Moriarty, in a way that he was too much of an egotist to change his ways and kill Sherlock. He liked playing games, and John knew he would carry out his plan, torturing until he was quite finished. Though, just because Sherlock wouldn't be murdered yet, by no means did it indicate that Sherlock would be safe from the psychopath. There was also the problem of Sherlock refusing to take Johns advice and rushing out to try and fix things himself, which John really did suspect would do more harm than good. He felt slightly guilty, he wondered if the new relationship between them was causing Sherlock's mind to wander, leaving him vulnerable. Then, he knew he was just making excuses, both Mycroft & Lestrade had hinted at Sherlock's erratic behaviours more than once. He completely understood the troubles that plagued the detective, situations like this were often observed with people with a high level intelligence, a bracket in which Sherlock most definitely fit into.

Tonight John hoped to persuade Sherlock to take some time off everything, maybe even visit his Mother for a short while. He didn't want to be away from him, especially when things between them were new and fresh, but he knew Sherlock's safety was priority. He wondered if he should inform Mycroft about the current situation with Moriarty, since he was a powerful force within the government, but not only would Sherlock never forgive him, he ran the risk of angering Moriarty, something he most definitely didn't want to do.

He alighted the bus at the end of Baker Street and began to walk up towards 221b. He shoved his hands into his pocket and shivered against the wind, missing the comfort of taxis already. He enjoyed winter, it meant he could wear clothes he preferred more such as nice thick jumpers, and of course with Christmas, the whole surrounding atmosphere became much more pleasant, especially in central London.

He unlocked the front door to the flat with shivering hands, and ran up the stairs, eager to reach the warm flat. He would probably have to leave later on to pick up some food, but for now he just wanted to have a cup of tea.

"Sherlock?" He shouted, entering the flat.

He received no answer. He assumed his flatmate must be sleeping, so he proceeded to remove his coat and turn on the kettle. Realising they had no milk, and remembering they had no working fridge to store it; he switched off the kettle with a sigh, and made his way to Sherlock's bedroom. He became puzzled as he looked into the room to see no sign of the detective. Then the glint of his phone on the bedside table caught his eye, and he began to piece things together, not liking what the outcome was going to be.

Moriarty had said in the email he had called, and sure enough when he checked his phone he had one miscall, no messages. Checking his voicemail just to be sure and hearing the already read message only confirmed his suspicions. The second threat in a week, Sherlock wouldn't be able to resist that, John knew he would be out there trying to find Moriarty, and getting himself into danger. But what could John do? He rang Sherlock hurriedly, but as he expected, he received no answer. He sent a text, just in case Sherlock checked his phone.

_Sherlock come back to the flat. I know what you're doing, don't, please. John_

He knew he sounded desperate in his message but he was, desperate for him not to get himself seriously hurt. He had no idea what he could do. He didn't dare call Lestrade, in case Moriarty found out and it angered him. He didn't dare leave the flat in case Sherlock returned in his absence. Instead, he walked himself into the living room, silently taking a seat in the chair facing the door, and sat infuriatingly waiting and praying for Sherlock's safe return sooner, rather than later.


	28. The Chase

_14-2_

Sherlock turned another street corner, still not slowing, still determined. He would not let Moriarty get away with this any longer. He refused to tire, and refused to give up on his chase, he would find him sooner or later, either that or Moriarty would end up finding him. He didn't care either way, as long as this madness was dealt with. His fury with the criminal had burned intensely since this package he received, and the voicemail taunting John was absolutely the last straw. He would bring this man into his life, surround him by a whirlwind of crime-solving and passion, and have him murdered by his own hand.

He stopped at a crossroads, hopelessly turning around in circles, trying to rack his brain, searching for locations where he could find Moriarty. He kept reliving the voicemail in his head, placing the clues, he had come to the conclusion the criminal had called from an Asian restaurant somewhere in the city somewhere near a main road. He had been to seven in the past three hours all around the city, desperately scouring nearby streets for any clues. He felt hopeless as he stood on the corner of Bow Street racking his brains.

Never before had he been so frustrated, he wanted to roar his heart out and rip out his hair. A thought occurred to him, a fleeting idea. Just off the Strand just an incredibly small Thai restaurant, too small to be popular with tourists, but friendly enough to be a good enough haunt for the Thai community of London. He began to run in a southern direction, pushing tourists and the like out of his way as he went. He knew it was a long shot, the eight one he had taken today, but he had to try, he had to find a way to stop the madness. When the whole thing started, he saw it as a game, as a piece of entertainment, he didn't even think about the lives that were being lost while Moriarty and he played with each other. But after the pool, after John's life and his were threatened, it stopped being exciting and started to actually scare Sherlock. He didn't want to die and he would make sure it definitely wasn't at the hands of Jim Moriarty. He was a genius; some low life _consulting criminal_ would most definitely not be the one to stop him.

Growing more frustrated with the sea of pedestrians he had to fight with he turned off onto a back-street. He was glad he knew London like the back of his hand, it meant he could navigate through the city a lot easier than most. He was only two streets away now, and he ran quicker, hoping and praying his enemy would still be there, or at the very least left some clues.

Just as he reached the edge of an alleyway, a burly fellow stepped from around the corner and stood blocking Sherlock's exit. He had no time for this, he turned on his heel to do a double take on himself, but again, found himself faced with a muscular man. He raised his eyebrow, taking a step and a glance back to assess the situation. Both men were of similar stature to him, a few inches shorter in height than him, but both were definitely much more muscular than him. Both looked mid-thirties, badly aged, manual labourers by the look of their shabby attire. A few things stood out though. The first was the look on the men's faces; the look of fear. He was sure it wasn't him causing such a reaction; there was nothing about him to threaten them. The rest of the clues made it obvious what was going on. Both men were wearing earpieces, along with large parka coats, with wires protruding out of the middle. Both had red dots pointing at their chests. Both were Moriarty's pawns.

"Don't be a coward, face me yourself," Sherlock shouted to the skies with a voice of steel.

It was the man in front of him who spoke, his voice quivering as he did so.

"Take my warnings. Stay away from me. People will die if you don't. People will burn."

Sherlock reached into his pocket, a vain attempt to grab his pistol. The second he moved his arm nearer to his coat, his legs were kicked from under him by the man behind. He was then dealt a swift blow to the chest, knocking the wind out of him. The man in front spoke again.

"This is a lesson. This is my game and you will stay away until I say so. Take this warning, detective and learn from it."

Both mean began to deliver blows to him, clearly instructed to do so if they wanted to save their own lives. Sherlock struggled, attempted to fight back, but he was no match to the men, becoming weaker with every hit. Every part of his body was being beaten, and he struggled to stay conscious as pain washed over him with every blow.

As soon as they had began, the two men stood up and walked away in opposite directions, leaving Sherlock lying face down on the cold pavement, spitting blood. He struggled to pull himself up onto his knees, falling more than a few times as he tried to do so. His body felt ruined, he knew his face looked a mess and several bones were broken. That's not what concerned him though, what bothered him most was that again Moriarty had bested him and there was absolutely nothing he could do about it.

He gritted his teeth against the searing pain, and began to slowly limp towards the nearest road, with the intention of returning back to the flat for much needed medical attention.


	29. Doctors Orders

_15-1_

John stood up to attention as soon as he saw Sherlock stumble into the flat. He automatically rushed forward to prop him up and take him over to the sofa. The detective winced and hobbled as he was helped across the flat, for John was not careful as he was last time. Now he was absolutely fuming at Sherlock and he wanted him to know that.

"How could you be so damn stupid?" He shouted. Sherlock flinched at his outburst, but he really was too angry to care. "You could've got yourself killed Sherlock and what bloody good would that have done? You think you are so clever, so brilliant that you can go running about London catching mastermind criminals. Well you can't, it doesn't work like that!"

He was leaning down now, his face close to Sherlock's, whose expression was a mixture of shock, confusion and distress. But John had to get out his rage.

"Dammit Sherlock don't you understand what's going on here? He _will _kill you. He will kill Mycroft; he will kill Lestrade, Anderson, Molly, and Sarah, everyone you have ever known. He will kill me Sherlock."

The detective sat bolt upright, grimacing in pain as he did so, but grabbing Johns hand in his face.

"He will _never_ get to you," he answered through gritted teeth. "And he won't get me either" he added after, mumbling considerably.

"You can't do this," John said, his tone now lowered, but his voice filled with desperation. "You can't take the law into your own hands this time, the risks are too high."

"I am the law," glowered Sherlock.

"You're not this time, it's too dangerous, please, promise me you will listen to me. I won't have you dead."

Sherlock nodded once, in a rather reluctant manner. John sighed and knelt down onto the carpet.

"Tell me the worst of your injuries so I can treat you," he said to the detective, reaching out to touch his bruised face.

"Most are superficial," Sherlock replied. "Will heal in a few days. Ribs are cracked though, and right index finger might be broken. Deep cut on my forehead too, although I'm sure you've noticed that."

John definitely had. Sherlock's face was a mess, covered in bruises and dried blood. The gash on his forehead would take several stitches, but he knew Sherlock would refuse to go to a hospital for any of his injuries.

"Wait there," he instructed as he quickly ran upstairs to fetch his medical emergency bag. He came back down and sat on the floor, opening it to check his supplies. He sat Sherlock upright, and removed his coat and scarf. The detective helped, but was obviously struggling to make movements. John then proceeded to unbutton Sherlock's shirt, slowly so he caused no pain. At least that's what he said out loud, partly he was so slow so he could secretly savour his view. He placed a hand upon Sherlock's chest, feeling around his ribcage, and apologizing every time the detective winced. Sure enough he had damaged two of his right side ribs. He couldn't tell the full extent of the damage without an x-ray, but it seemed the cracks weren't severe enough to have caused any internal bleeding. He removed an elasticised bandage from his bag and wrapped up Sherlock's injured ribs, padding them so they were less likely to be knocked. While he did so Sherlock placed his hands upon John's shoulders, hooking his fingers into his shoulder blades. It didn't feel uncomfortable, despite the amount of pressure Sherlock applied. When he had finished John moved onto Sherlock's finger, taking his hand off his shoulder and placing Sherlock's fingers in his palm. He could tell the broken index finger straight away, it stuck out at rather an alarming angle. There wasn't much he could do except create a splint and bind his middle and index fingers together.

He stood up and kissed Sherlock gingerly on the chest before heading towards the bathroom. He returned with a bowl of warm water and placed it down on the floor.

"Sponge bath time is it?" Smirked Sherlock.

"Shut up you idiot," grinned John. "I need to clean your nasty face."

Sherlock looked at him with mock horror, before sinking into the sofa so his head was at a more appealing level. He closed his eyes and put his palms together in the middle of his chest. John noted that if he hadn't been covered in blood he would have looked positively serene. John mixed sterilising chemicals into the water, and began to wash Sherlock's dirty face and many cuts with a warm cloth. He took care, not wanting to have to look at his face while he winced and cringed with pain. He managed to keep calmly still, and John finished the job quickly and hopefully painlessly.

"I need to stitch this cut," John explained, running his finger across Sherlock's forehead, just above where the cut lay. "I can do it here if you want me to, but it will hurt."

Sherlock waved his hand dismissively. "I've had stitches before John, I am aware of the pain that comes with them. You are my doctor John Watson; I trust you and leave my life in your hands."

John couldn't help but smile at this, it was rare for Sherlock to compliment someone else, and John briefly enjoyed the ego boost. He removed the materials he needed out of his bag and readied himself to stitch up Sherlock's head. He ordered the detective to stay still and quickly and steadily sewed up the cut with eight clean stitches.

"There all done," said John, beginning to pack his things away.

"Thank you," replied Sherlock. "I am very tired. I am going to retire to bed now." He sat up, preparing himself to walk to bed.

John couldn't help but feel a little downfallen. He had sort of hoped that after the past few nights, him and Sherlock sharing a bed would become commonplace.

"Okay then," He replied. "I'll head upstairs to bed then too, and see you in the morning."

"Don't be ridiculous!" exclaimed Sherlock grabbing him lightly by the wrist. "I am an injured patient, what makes you think I would retire to bed without my doctor at hand!"

John couldn't help but chuckle at his rash disappointment, and the joy which quickly took hold of him as his flatmate had declared they would once again, spend the night together.


	30. Wake Up Call

_15-2_

Sherlock woke with the dawn to feel rough fingers tracing patterns on his back. It tickled, and felt absolutely lovely at the same time. He moved his body back into Johns, pressing them both together. He enjoyed this sort of contact, it was very rare he actually liked touching people, it was unnecessary. But with John it was different; he craved the feel of his skin, the touch of his fingers, the masculine scent that enveloped him when they were close. He loved lying like this, while John was a smaller man than he, his body felt protective as he wrapped himself around Sherlock. Sherlock pressed in closer, so almost every bit of their body was touching, wrapping his legs around John and pulling the doctors arms around his chest, carefully avoiding his injuries as he did so. John murmured something intelligible, as he buried his head into Sherlock's long neck, tracing light kisses upon his skin. Sherlock noted Johns fingers twitching as he did so, he had noted this before with john, a sign of excitement, and what Sherlock hoped in this particular case, was arousal.

He reached his arm around John, grabbing his behind firmly and pushing them together, causing John to involuntarily graze his teeth along Sherlock's skin. Not that he minded, he very much enjoyed mixing pleasure with pain, to him, that's what made it fun. He dug his nails into John's skin as he began to slowly grind against him, and was met with an appreciative grunt from John.

"You're so sexy in the mornings John," he purred as he continued his movements.

John's actions changed slightly, and Sherlock knew he was deciding to himself whether the compliment made him feel uncomfortable or aroused.

"Move around to the other side will you John?" Sherlock asked in his silken voice. "I want to see your face, and my unfortunate injuries are preventing me from turning myself."

John then firmly planted a kiss on Sherlock's neck, before crawling over his body, placing himself so they were both facing, their noses almost touching.

"Better?" John asked, locking his fingers together with Sherlock's uninjured hand.

"Much. I do enjoy talking to your face instead of someone behind me." He smirked.

John gingerly kissed Sherlock lightly on the lips. Sherlock found it endearing how shy and hesitant John was sometimes, he forgot how new and odd this must be to him.

"I like that you are mine John Watson," he stated, rather out of the blue. "Does it please you? Be honest now."

John cleared his throat before he answered. "I am pleased you are happy. This is strange to me and my feeling for you, while strong and enjoyable, confuse me. I think, yes I think it does make me happy. I shouldn't care about anything else if you make me happy, and I you."

Sherlock smiled at his honest and refreshing response.

"Then we shall continue, you and I, to be lovers and partners, and above all else, to enjoy each other's company."

John smiled at this, wrapping his arms around the detective as a response. Sherlock eagerly allowed himself to be entrapped within his grip, to feel them both pressed so close together. He bowed his head down and began to nuzzle John's neck and shoulders, lightly biting him in a playful manner. He let his hand drift between them, down John's body, pleasurably feeling the muscles in his chest as they contracted, burying his fingers in his soft, sandy hair, and beginning to pleasure him with his long, slender fingers.

John moaned and stirred against his touch, and Sherlock lifted his face up again to kiss John tenderly. His actions were soft and thoughtful, despite his previous thoughts; he was not in the mood to be sexually rough with John today. He purred against johns touch as he too followed Sherlock's hand with his, placing one firmly gripping his hip, and using the other to stroke him. Sherlock thoroughly enjoyed his touch, quickly becoming completely and utterly consumed by the moment.

Both of them moved together as one, kissing and touching, as if nothing else matter in the world. They were both completely consumed by each other, exploring like there was nothing else to do in the world. The air surrounding them was thick with lust, and no sounds were audible except the pleasurable moans that escaped the both of them. Together, they both quickened their movements, and reached climax together as one.

Both Sherlock and John collapsed against the pillows, satisfied and exhausted. A small grin escaped Sherlock as he glanced over to his companion lying in a daze.

"I think both of us are in need of a shower," he commented to john.

"What? Oh yes I see. You are welcome to go first."

"Nonsense!" Sherlock laughed at him, tracing patterns across his collarbones. "It would be foolish of me to leave you alone in such a dazed state of mind. The only way to solve such a conundrum is, _regrettably_, we will both have to enter the shower together."

John grinned at this, Sherlock was sure he could see a glint in the doctors eye as he, made his way towards the bathroom, much quicker than Sherlock had expected. With a smile on his own face, he hopped out of the bed, following his naked flatmate with enthusiasm.


	31. Negotiations

_16-1_

John walked out of the bathroom ruffling his wet hair with a towel and sat himself down on his chair. Sherlock had entered the living room five minutes previously and was seated across from John. He was dressed in his silken dressing gown, wrapped around a fitted grey t-shirt and navy bottoms. He sat with his ankle elegantly crossed, with his laptop balanced on his knees. He looked up when John sat down, smiling pleasantly at him, before returning his gaze to his screen.

"Hope you're not doing what I think you're doing," warned John. Now was the time he planned to bring up Sherlock taking some time off work.

Sherlock gazed up innocently, closing his laptop as he did so. "Merely checking the news my dear Watson, nothing interesting, not a sniff of a serial killer for miles."

John couldn't help but laugh at the man's honesty. He remembered when he had first crossed paths with Sally Donovan; she had warned him that one day Sherlock himself would become a serial killer. John knew it impossible; anyone who really got to know the man could see him for who he was. A lover of science, with a passion for mystery and justice, and a rather brilliant talent in the skill of deduction. With all those cards in his hand, it would surely be impossible for him to ignore cases which he and his brilliant mind could so eagerly solve. It wasn't him getting tips, or really getting a kick out of it, solving crimes was a way for Sherlock to learn, gain more intelligence, and maybe less importantly, give his ego a boost.

"I have to be your doctor you know," John pointed out.

"Of course," smiled Sherlock. "I wouldn't have it any other way."

John guessed he would have slightly misinterpreted his statement, regretting that the detective hadn't caught on.

"As your doctor," he continued. "I am advising you to take time away from work."

"And if I don't comply with your advice?" challenged Sherlock.

"I will take precautions to see that you won't. I will tell Lestrade not to speak to you, ask Mrs Hudson to ensure you do no work, and if I have to Sherlock, I will force you myself."

Sherlock raised his eyebrow. "I would like to see you try Dr Watson!"

Before Sherlock could even register John had launched himself across the room and pinned him down onto the chair by his wrists. He leaned his body forwards, placing his legs on either side of Sherlock's, trapping him further. He leaned forward still, their faces touching. Then without warning he kissed Sherlock, deeply and fierce, Sherlock eagerly accepting him. The detective struggled to release his wrists, but John only held on tighter. Then, as quickly as the kiss had begun, John pulled away, ending it. He pushed Sherlock's wrists down further into the armrest, causing Sherlock to shift uncomfortably.

"If you work Sherlock. I leave. I leave as your flatmate, as your friend, as more. I am not sticking around to see you destroy yourself, to see you get murdered."

Sherlock lowered his head, avoiding his gaze. John sighed, releasing his grip and using his hand to lightly lift Sherlock's face so they were facing again.

"Please Sherlock," he pleaded.

Sherlock kissed him, just lightly enough for their lips to tingle with sensation.

"I won't have my actions make you feel uncomfortable or distressed in any way. How long for may I ask though."

"Let us say a week, and then see how things are going?"

"Acceptable," replied Sherlock. "What am I supposed to do with myself in the meantime?"

"I don't know," John admitted. Sherlock didn't really have many proper hobbies; it was hard to suggest something. "Maybe write a paper, watch some TV? I'm sure you will find something to do."

"I have a condition," Declared Sherlock, placing his hand upon John's hip rather firmly. "I will comply with your advice, so long as you omit yourself from treating any other patients."

"I can't do that Sherlock, we need money, and we have a new fridge to pay for!"

Sherlock laughed loudly at that comment, and John was shocked when Sherlock pulled him so he was sat upon his lap. He felt mildly uncomfortable, but he did like the closeness, and besides nobody could see, so it wasn't really doing any harm.

"John you are a ridiculous man. Surely after all this time you have realised I have money, and lots of it."

Johns only response was rapid blinking as he tried to process this information.

"John I dress in highly expensive handmade suits, designer shirts, and in the short time you have known me I have never once done a day's paid work. I have family money, and besides that is not important, did you really think I would allow you to pay for something I had broken!"

"No I suppose not. But why did you never mention this before?"

Sherlock shrugged. "It never needed mentioning. I assumed if I paid both of our rents, you would take it into offence, as people often to in generous financial situations."

"Hold on a minute," replied John. "When we first met you said you had your eye on this flat, that together we could both afford it. So if you didn't actually need someone to help with the rent, why did I move in?"

Sherlock smiled, resting his palm in the middle of John's spine.

"I fancied myself companionship and interesting company. You moved in John, because I intrigued you and offered a lifestyle consisting of danger and excitement."

John leaned back into Sherlock's hand. He couldn't argue with the man there. From the first moment he met Sherlock he was completely fascinated, hungry to learn more about the strange man. Although as he sat in the first floor flat of 221B Baker Street he noted how he never imagined he would come to find out quite as much as he had about the great detective; Sherlock Holmes.


	32. The Detective & The Doctor

_16-2_

John fell asleep in Sherlock's lap around half an hour ago. His head rested upon Sherlock's shoulder, and the detective had to use his arm to steady him and stop him toppling backwards over the chair. Sherlock enjoyed it; he liked the light snores coming from John's mouth, the heat he was emitting, and the closeness of their bodies. He sat with his face buried into John's soft hair humming to himself. He felt content, and he was really trying to push his mind away from Moriarty for John's sake. He knew the doctor was right, that he should let things go for now. His mind was strained and frantic when he concentrated on Moriarty, and he knew that would do him no good. Then he had to think of the lives that could be lost. It wasn't a game anymore to him; he wasn't in charge of solving crimes to save people's lives. He now had to not solve anything in order to keep his family and friends from being murdered, he had no other choice.

He shifted slightly, rather absentmindedly, causing John to slip from his grip and fall backwards. Sherlock managed to put his arm back out just in time to stop the startled man from falling over on the floor. John looked up at him, blinking furiously in a startled and confused manner. Sherlock only chuckled at him, using his arm to pull John closer to his body. John wrapped his arm around Sherlock's waist to steady himself, and lay his head upon his chest. Sherlock smiled at him, happy that circumstances had turned out how he hoped, happy that he found himself with a companion. He kissed John lightly on the top of his head.

"What was that for?" John asked, looking up at him.

"Merely showing my affection, you will have to get used to it if we are both taking a break from work together."

"Oh, will I?" He asked, sounding rather surprised, causing Sherlock to chuckle.

"What else am I to do John," he replied, "what with no cases or experiments to occupy my mind, the only other interest I have, is you."

"What does that mean?" John asked suspiciously, as if he expected Sherlock to have an ulterior motive.

Sherlock began to entwine his long fingers around John's hair. It pleased him at this length, all grown out of his military crop. "I would like to get to know you more? That is acceptable isn't it? Lovers should know the worst about each other. The best too, of course. It occurred to be we know only snippets about each other, I'm sure there is more to be explored."

John buried himself further into Sherlock's chest, his eyes still tilted up so they were still making contact. "Whatever you want, I'm happy."

Sherlock wrapped his fingers tighter around Johns hair, using his grip to bring their faces level, so he could kiss John hungrily and powerfully.

"Are you surprised John?"

"Surprised? At what?" He stammered, clearly the kiss caught him off guard, and he struggled to compose himself.

"At your arousal for me? At the fact you would willingly do anything for me, and you will carry on doing so for the rest of your life."

"Oh you are just being arrogant." Mumbled John. "Just because I have feelings for you, does not mean that..."

"Wrong." Sherlock started to talk in-between tracing kisses along Johns face and down his neck. "You see, and you know, I am excellent at deducing, a professional. I can see the way you look at me, they way your body always subconsciously shifts to match mine. Before we had been together, your actions were more subtle, still there, but not as much. As if your body didn't understand what your brain was telling you."

"You can't help yourself can you," breathed John, swallowing as Sherlock kissed his throat.

Sherlock stopped and looked up confused. He wondered if he had crossed a line again, he did it so often without realising. He personally didn't see how pointing out John's obvious feelings wasn't the right thing to do, but then again, he never did understand the funny way other people's brains worked.

"I've spoken out of line?" He asked. "I apologize; I shall try keeping my deductions about you to myself."

"No its okay. I find your talents fantastic you know I do. It's just a bit shocking hearing someone describe your inner feelings so easily."

"I see. Any time though, I am going too far, be sure to stop me, I wouldn't want you to be uncomfortable."

"Of course I will," replied John, kissing Sherlock softly on the lips as a means to end the conversations. Sherlock accepted the kiss eagerly, it was warm and sweet, almost intoxicating, the taste of John made his head swim and his body heat up significantly. The kiss lasted long enough for them both to struggle with breathing when they reluctantly pulled apart. John stood up after, grabbing Sherlock's hand to pull him standing with him.

"I think it's about time we got something to eat, don't you?"

"Perfect," smiled Sherlock. "We could go to the Chinese?"

"Wherever you want, we can go," John replied with an equally large smile on his face.

Both grabbing their coats they made their way out onto Baker Street, not even aware they were both still hand in hand.


	33. Getting To Know One Another

_17-1_

John and Sherlock both sat on the sofa, full from their dinner. They both sat facing each other, legs crossed, and their backs on the armrests. John rested his elbow upon his knees, propping himself up, while Sherlock sat leant further back, his hands in his lap. The flat was hot, stifling almost; John found the heat becoming unbearable. He lifted his sweater up over his head, tossing it onto the floor, glad to be rid of it. He looked up, catching Sherlock staring intently at his chest, a strange look on his face.

"Chinese food is an aphrodisiac," he stated, not taking his eyes off his chest.

John cocked his head to the side, completely confused. "No its not..."

"Damn!" exclaimed Sherlock, looking up and clapping his hands, an even stranger gleeful look on his face now. "I was so hoping you would fall for that. No matter, I do have more pressing things on my mind. Sexual encounters can be saved for later."

With that he winked, the same wink that John knew would always make him feel weak at the knees. He shook his head in an attempt to compose himself, not wanting to let his mind wander. It was difficult; Sherlock had a way of captivating others with his strange movements. John sometimes he suspected the man didn't even realise he was doing it, but then decided Sherlock was too clever to not notice his effect on people.

"What's on your mind then?" John asked, clearing his throat as he did so, bringing his mind back to reality.

"We have us to discuss," he replied simply. John sat still for a moment, waiting for him to elaborate. As usual, it seemed Sherlock expected John to automatically know what he was thinking. It wasn't until John raised his eyebrow quizzically that he carried on speaking. "I said to you I wanted to get to know you better, and tonight seems to me like the opportune moment."

"Okay then, what do you want to know?"

Without warning, Sherlock uncrossed his long legs, snaked towards John, and wrapped himself around him. John was most certainly taken by surprise, but allowed himself to be trapped together by the force of Sherlock's legs around him.

"Why did you enlist in the army?" questioned Sherlock.

John looked away from his gaze. "You know the answer to that already."

"Why."

"I like danger..." he mumbled. He then looked up, gazing at Sherlock rather sternly. "There is no point to this if you are just going to ask questions you have already deduced the answers to."

"Very true, just like to hear the answers from your mouth," he smiled in response. "Where did you grow up?"

"Born and grew up in Guildford. Stayed there until I moved to London to study."

"Parents? Siblings? Tell me about them?" Sherlock asked.

"Harry's my dad, army man, that's why I went in myself. He moved to Australia with his new wife while I was over in Afghanistan. Never met the woman. Mum died when I was young, didn't really know her, happened when I was three. Just me and Harry now really, and as you already know, we don't talk all that much."

Sherlock sat and listened patiently as he talked. John didn't like talking about the past, he saw no point in it, and he wasn't even sure why he was indulging Sherlock by answering his questions.

"You are uncomfortable." Observed Sherlock.

John shook his head. "No not exactly, I'm just not one for discussing the past."

"I understand, let's move on to other things then. Although I feel I should ask if you have called Harriet lately."

Again John shook his head, feeling slightly guilty. If only his sister would sort herself out, then they could have a proper relationship again.

"She's destructive. It's difficult to be around her, it's difficult to even talk to her," He said, hoping Sherlock would understand.

"I see, you miss family though don't you."

"Yeah, I do." He answered, lowering his head. It had been difficult to come back to England to almost nothing.

"You have me? If that's any consolation."

John looked up to see Sherlock smiling. It was infectious; he couldn't help but smile back.

"It's actually a huge consolation," he replied. "I don't know what I would have done if I hadn't moved in with you."

Sherlock smiled, broader still.

"What?" John asked, slightly puzzled.

Instead of giving him an answer, Sherlock leaned forward and placed a soft kiss on his lips. It made John feel dizzy, he felt as if he didn't have Sherlock's legs wrapped around him, he might've fallen off of the sofa. He moaned slightly as Sherlock slipped his tongue in his mouth, and his arms automatically snaked around the detective's waist. He felt absolutely euphoric. He was more than happy he had Sherlock, that he had practically become his family. He wanted for nothing more, and he hoped things wouldn't change. He was wholly satisfied with how events had transpired, glad that he had taken the plunge that night and agreed to enter the bedroom with Sherlock.

The two fell back slowly, John lying on top of Sherlock's chest. The kiss continued until the both became dizzy with lust, John breaking away to rest his head upon Sherlock's silk clad chest. He sighed with content, he really was happy.


	34. The Riding Crop

_17-2_

Sherlock sat across from John, his elbows dug into the table, his hands upon his chin as a means to prop himself up. His brow was furrowed with concentration, the situation much more challenging than he had expected. He concentrated deeply on the matter at hand, trying to figure out the best move. Carefully and slowly, he lifted his hand, moving his piece along the board. With almost no hesitation, John made his next move and bested him.

"When did you get so good at chess," grumbled Sherlock, not liking the fact he wasn't going to win this match, just as he hadn't won the last one.

John leaned back into his chair with a smug grin on his face, saying nothing, waiting for Sherlock to make the next move.

"I'm bored," declared Sherlock, folding his arms across his chest in defiance.

"Only because you are losing," chuckled John.

"Irrelevant. I want to do something else."

"Fine fine." John began to pack away the chess board. "What is it you want to do?"

Sherlock stood up, and strode over to the bedroom. "Come in here in five minutes."

He didn't look back, but he knew John would have a very confused look upon his face. He didn't like being beaten, he absolutely despised it, and he wasn't about to let John think he could get away with it. He searched through the back of his wardrobe, pulling out what he was searching for; his Mark Todd leather riding crop. Used a few times for experimentation in the morgue, Sherlock had never thought of using it for anything else, until now. His eyes glinted wickedly at the thought of punishing John. He undressed quickly, at stood at the foot of the bed wearing nothing but his tight, black Alexander McQueen briefs. The dark colour stood out considerably against his pale skin, ensuring that John wouldn't be able to look anywhere else. He placed his riding crop in his hands behind his back, hiding it from plain sight.

John walked into the room, and Sherlock had to fight to keep a grin off his face. John was holding a cup of tea in his right hand.

"I'm angry John," he said, simply.

"Seriously? Because I beat you at chess. Bit ridiculous don't you think. Why don't we go for a walk or something?"

Sherlock shook his head. "No, I want to play another game."

"What? The only thing we have to play is chess, hence why we played it in the first place."

"Put down your drink, and we shall play."

Sherlock didn't move an inch the whole time he spoke to John, standing up straight with his legs together and his hands behind his back. John placed his drink on the dresser next to the door, and looked at Sherlock in a quizzical manner. Sherlock edged towards him in two lithe steps, stopping so their bodies were less than an inch apart. Sherlock suppressed a smile still, as Johns breathing became shallow and rapid. He used one hand to removed Johns jumper and t-shirt in one go, efficiently and quickly, never breaking eye contact as he did so. He slithered his arm around so it was behind John, and as an evil smile formed on his lips, he leaned in to kiss John fiercely, as he cracked his riding crop along Johns behind. John jumped with surprise, but Sherlock held on to the kiss with vigour, wrapping his other hand around John's body, holding him there. The second time Sherlock used his crop; John deepened the kiss, while digging his fingers deep into Sherlock's hair.

Sherlock turned them around, and pushed John onto the bed, his face pressed into the pillow. Sherlock placed himself on top of John, turning his head slightly so he could continue kissing the doctor. He used one hand to expertly remove John's jeans, leaving them at his ankles, so John could kick them off. He sat on johns legs, leaning down to trace deep kisses along his spine, before sitting up and cracking his crop fiercely on Johns behind. The doctor shuddered intensely with pain, but his moans of sheer pleasure persuaded Sherlock to carry on. He was enjoying himself, pain, control and sex went hand in hand perfectly. He traced his kisses all the way down Johns back, and used his perfect teeth to remove John's underwear. He smiled as the doctor shivered with anticipation. He softly ran his fingers over the red marks covering John, intrigued by the forming patterns he had left. He brought the crop down again, but this time, John buried his head into the pillow, muffling his cries. Sherlock felt displeased by this, he wanted John to be audible. Sherlock quickly removed his own underwear and prepared himself , then entered John with considerable force. He didn't start with a slow pace as he had previously done, this time he was fast, full of ferociousness. John couldn't help but moan out loud, causing Sherlock to crack the whip on Johns back, shifting the moans to cries of pain and pleasure. Sherlock threw his riding crop to the ground, using his now free hands to grab a hold of Johns hips, pushing himself deeper. He could feel John's body reacting, feel the tensing of his muscles, the twitching, and the vibrations that his cries of passion created. This only fuelled Sherlock more, his love for anatomy combined with his affection for John. As he reached climax he could feel his legs begin to grow weak, ready to buckle. He held on tighter to Johns hips, knowing they were both close, moving together with John as they both let out moans of delight as they both felt the waves of pleasure wash over them.

Sherlock felt his legs collapse, and fell, resting next to John. He used his last bit of energy to sit up, and softly kiss each one of Johns red marks. As much as he liked to see his mark over John's skin, he felt rather guilty at the pain they must have caused. John snaked his arm around Sherlock's neck, bringing him back next to him on the bed.

"I'm sorry if I caused you pain," murmured Sherlock as his guilt set in.

John smiled with content, brushing a hand across Sherlock's cheek. He moved his body into Sherlock's, cocooning himself with the detective's warm body, kissing his chest once, before, almost at the same time, they both fell into a blissful post-coital sleep.


	35. Lestrade's Visit

_18-1_

John and Sherlock were still dozing in each other's arms when there was a knock at the door. John didn't even register what was happening until he saw Sherlock throw on some clothes and stride out of the bedroom. He rubbed his eyes furiously to wake himself up, and dragged himself out of the bed. He redressed in his cable knit sweater and jeans, before groggily walking in the living room. There he saw Sherlock stood facing the window, Lestrade the other end of the room with his hands in his pockets. John sighed, knowing he had a difficult conversation ahead of him. He made his way over to the kitchen to switch on the kettle."

"Morning Lestrade, tea?" asked John.

"Please," he replied, not taking his eyes of Sherlock's back, looking as exasperated as ever.

"Sherlock?" asked John. He didn't receive an answer, but as usual, he made him one anyway. The next ten minutes past by in silence, and John stood in the kitchen, feeling increasingly uncomfortable. He made his way over to his chair, sitting down with the intent of breaking the increasingly awkward silence. However, Lestrade spoke first.

"John, Sherlock expects me to believe since you and I last spoke, nothing has happened with Moriarty. Want to tell me the truth."

John opened his mouth, and he was shot a glaring look from Sherlock, a reminder that some things were best left unsaid at this stage.

"Nothing has happened," he replied curtly.

"Oh don't give me that John," Lestrade sighed, clearly stressed out. "If nothing has happened, then why are you both holed up in the flat, not working and avoiding contact with everyone else?"

John was quick to come up with a response. "I mentioned to you before Sherlock was ill and needed time away from his cases. And, as his doctor, I felt it best to be in his company."

Lestrade looked them both up and down for what seemed a long while, before nodding, seemingly satisfied with Johns answer. Sherlock still stood at the window, his back to the two men.

"So neither of you have seen or heard anything at all from him?"

John shook his head. "Nothing. And besides, if he had somehow managed to get into the flat, it would mean the officers outside were doing a pretty shoddy job wouldn't it." He regretted his words instantly, worrying about the reaction Sherlock might have to being watched by the police.

Lestrade removed his hands from his pockets, and smoothed down the front of his suit jacket.

"I need to know if something happens, however small or insignificant it might seem," stressed Lestrade. "I can't have you two hiding things from me."

"Yes very good, see you later Lestrade," Drawled Sherlock, in an extremely bored tone, signifying he was eager for the inspector to leave.

Lestrade knew his stay was becoming a nuisance, and bid his farewells to both the men, asking once again for them not to withhold information. After seeing Lestrade out, John sat down on the sofa, exasperated from the conversation. Sherlock whisked around and threw himself on the sofa, his head landing neatly in Johns lap.

"What a mess we are in Doctor Watson," he sighed, clearly as stressed as John was.

"Yep," answered John, absentmindedly beginning to stroke Sherlock's hair. "Think it was wise, not telling Lestrade."

"It was the only thing we could do. It is likely Moriarty is watching us and we can't afford to trip up and end up with blood on our hands."

"Yes you are right."

"By the way," said Sherlock. "Were you ever going to tell me you were having me watched by the police, or were you just hoping my brilliant self wouldn't notice?"

John cursed under his breath, causing Sherlock to let out a deep, hearty laugh.

"I knew the exact second they arrived; I am very surprised you thought such a thing would escape me"

John cursed himself again, mentally this time. It was pretty obvious such a thing as armed officers would attract Sherlock's attention, nothing with him went amiss.

"Were you ever going to tell me you noticed?" asked John.

Again Sherlock laughed. "I figured you were best left in your ignorance, as you thought I was best left in mine."

John grinned at this, glad Sherlock wasn't upset at him, and glad they had both done things with the best of intentions.

"What do we do now then? About Moriarty, do we just sit and wait?" he asked the detective, regretting the fact he had to lower the tone.

"Heavens no, we work out his motives. But as you know Doctor, serious problems are best figured out by the subconscious, so in the meantime, I suggest we spend the day doing something trivial, letting my brain work on the conundrum while we enjoy ourselves."

"Sounds good to me," agreed John. "Anything in particular you want to do?"

"Let's see," began Sherlock. "Judging on the date, my new suit should be ready. I've given the tailor two days leeway; it should be ready for collection by now. Oh and I haven't been to see molly in a while, I'm sure she will have something interesting for me. Then I would like to pick up some chemical supplies, I know a little place that should have what I'm after."

John laughed, sure he would never get used to Sherlock's odd ways. Experimenting on cadavers and buying acid was certainly not how he imagined he would be spending his days after he left the army. Not that he minded, anything that brought excitement to his life he welcomed, as much as he did protest to Sherlock, he liked his situation very much. Not that he liked being tailed by a serial killer, but he sincerely hoped the problem would be handled soon. Sherlock was clever, and he hoped clever enough to catch out Moriarty before he did anything terrible.

"Is that it then?" John asked. "Shopping and Barts. What about the rest of the day?"

Sherlock looked up with a smile on his face. "Oh well after I've dragged you around, I'm sure I owe you, so feel free to pick any activity to occupy us for the rest of the day."

John smiled and resumed playing with Sherlock's hair. He knew the detective wouldn't like it, but he had the perfect afternoon planned.


	36. Round & Round The Garden

_18-1_

Sherlock dug his heels in the floor, grumbling loudly yet incoherently as he was dragged along by John. He found himself seriously regretting letting John choose the activities, as they were dragged halfway across London. John pulled on Sherlock's hand trying to get him to stop dragging his feet. Instead he stopped dead still, a pout forming on his face. He didn't mind running around London hand in hand with John, he just despised their destination. John looked at him with a stern look on his face.

"Sherlock, you promised," he said in a pleading voice.

He continued to pout, knowing that eventually he would have to give in to John's demands and concede. When they stopped by to drop his supplies off at the flat, he had hoped he would be able to persuade John to stay in, but no such luck. He had hoped John would be vaguely interested on helping him work on an experiment. He had acquired a pair of fresh eyeballs from Molly, and hoped to experiment with corrosion effects. Unfortunately, John seemed rather repulsed at the idea, and demanded to leave the flat to go to what Sherlock imagined would be equal to hell.

"It's going to be dull," whined Sherlock. "Why can't we just go home and play with my acid!"

Several passersby glanced over at the couple with alarm. He imagined even the sight of them must look hilarious, like an old married couple arguing in the street.

John sighed. "What is it going to take for me to get you to come?"

Sherlock opened his mouth.

"And before you say it, no I am not helping you with your _experiment_, it's disgusting."

Sherlock closed his mouth again and resumed his pout. He hated not getting his own way, and it was actually rather difficult thinking of something good he could use as a bargaining tool.

"A massage." Sherlock declared, a glint in his eye.

"Really, is that it?"

Sherlock nodded vigorously, causing John to laugh.

"Alright then, easily done! I promise you will enjoy this, it really is amazing! 

Sherlock gave in, and returned to walking side by side with John, still hand in hand. He could tell that when people walked past and actually noticed them, John tensed up, uncomfortable at their relationship creating attention. This behaviour only caused Sherlock to tighten his grip on John, reminding the doctor that there was nothing wrong with his feelings, and that they should be comfortable and safe with each other.

They both entered the building, and ambled along with the queue until they reached their destination, taking seats near the back.

"I didn't enjoy this the first time we were here you know," grumbled Sherlock, slumping down in his seat.

John laughed. "This time we aren't on the tail of a seven foot tall assassin though, so you can actually concentrate and enjoy the show."

_Stupid space_, thought Sherlock. If John wasn't so wonderfully charming and persuasive, he would never have been caught dead filling his brain with such nonsense.

He continued to sulk as the lights dimmed, and the introduction of the film began to play. As the voiceover began, he felt Johns hand casually rest on his knee, and he glanced over to see the doctor, fully engaged in the production. He couldn't help but smile, it was wonderful to see John excited about something, and at that moment he actually felt rather happy about the fact John had chosen to watch it with him. He sat back with the intention of watching the documentary. He had intended to watch the entire thing, to please John, but more than a few times, he just found himself watching the man next to him, studying his expressions and body language. He was truly fascinated by the man, and as much as he really did try to concentrate on the production being show before him, he found his companion to be a much more interesting subject.

Too soon for his liking, the end credits began rolling. He was thoroughly enjoying watching John in the darkened room, studying him with intent. The doctor turned to him, his face illuminated with happiness.

"So, did you enjoy it?" John asked, sounding very animated.

Sherlock didn't have the heart to tell John he had watched hardly any of it. He was lucky the doctor was so drawn in to the show; it meant he hadn't noticed Sherlock's gazes.

"It was a beautiful show definitely," Sherlock replied. "Unfortunately the facts of the universe continue to elude me, but I most definitely appreciate the beauty of it all."

John smiled, satisfied with Sherlock's hand, and they both made their way out into the fresh air.

"Dusk is setting in," observed Sherlock. "Is there anything else you wanted to do Doctor Watson?"

"Takeaway and crap telly?" suggested John.

"As you wish," replied Sherlock, bowing in a comical manner, causing John to giggle rather loudly.

Sherlock put on his leather gloves and grabbed hold of John's hand, striding towards the road to hail a taxi. A few short months ago, the idea of spending an evening with another person, watching television and eating bad food sounded like the absolute epitome of hell. Right now though, he wanted to do nothing more than pick up a pizza, stick on a mindless entertainment show, and relax with John Watson until they both fell asleep. He considered himself lucky, and his mind at ease, he took comfort in the fact he had such a wonderful distraction from worse things to come.


	37. A Night In

_19-1_

John leant back into the sofa, chewing slowly on the last pizza slice. He had his feet rested up on the coffee table, with one arm draped over Sherlock's ankles. Sherlock sat with his back in the armrest, and his legs stretched over Johns lap. John casually stroked his fingers up and down Sherlock's shin, immersing himself in the remainder of the film. They had both picked Shutter Island, on the premise that it was a brilliant mystery film. John had no doubt that Sherlock probably figured it out in the last ten minutes and was now pretending to watch it. However, even though they were entering the last twenty minutes, John still had not figured out the story's twist, and was thoroughly enjoying watching it.

John finished his food and wiped his fingers with the napkin by his side. He then put his now empty hand around the back of Sherlock's legs, almost as if he was hugging them. Sherlock didn't turn his face away from the screen to acknowledge him, but John caught a smile creep across the detectives face. He buried himself further into the sofa, and fully immersed himself in the last part of the movie, hoping to understand it.

_He didn't. _He understood the end explanation, but he absolutely couldn't grasp whether the ending was real and true or all a lie. He considered asking Sherlock, but he didn't really want the whole movie explained to him in detail, which he knew Sherlock would do if he asked for an explanation. Instead, he moved Sherlock's legs towards the edge of the sofa, and laying himself down next to the detective. He placed his head in Sherlock's lap, and rested his feet up on top of the armrest. He sighed in content, happy with the relaxing and danger free evening they had spent together. The whole day had been blissful, both enjoying themselves and each other's company. After a while, he didn't even mind that they walked around London holding hands. To begin with he felt awkward, like everyone was staring at him, but eventually it was just as if it was natural. He knew molly had noticed something was going on. Sherlock was in a strangely affectionate mood all day, and proceeded to wrap his arm around John's waist while they were standing in the morgue. While they were stood behind a large table, it was pretty obvious where Sherlock's arm was, and Molly's coldness towards John afterwards, only confirmed his suspicions that she noticed.

They both sat still and in silence for a long time. John could tell Sherlock was deep in thought, and as much as he didn't want to disturb him, he didn't want the detective to worry about Moriarty. He himself was worried, for different reasons though. He was worried his new relationship with Sherlock was somehow clouding the detective's judgement, and by being together it only made them more vulnerable. He knew he wouldn't be able to bring himself to leave Sherlock's side, however selfish it sounded in his head. From the first day he visited the flat, he knew he would be with Sherlock indefinitely. He wished he could be less selfish though, leave in the hope of keeping Sherlock safe, not being a distraction any longer. Being in the army, he knew how it worked. Showing sentiment or intense emotion clouded you, disabled you from working at your full potential, allowing room for mistakes, often deadly mistakes.

"Sherlock?" said John, breaking the silence.

"Hmmm?"

"Stop thinking. Especially stop thinking if you are in fact thinking about _him_."

"Sorry," Sherlock replied. "I'm just trying to think of a way to keep you safe. And myself of course."

Again, John felt a twinge of guilt. Sherlock was thinking of his safety before his own, something he shouldn't be allowing him to do.

"I'm a liability," he said to the detective quietly.

"What are you talking about?"

"I'm acting as a distraction, and as a bargaining tool. Having me around is very dangerous. I could get you killed."

John squeezed his eyes shut, waiting for Sherlock to agree and ask him to leave him alone. Instead he felt a swift clap on the side of his head.

"Fuck! What was that for," John grumbled, rubbing the side of his head.

"For being utterly ridiculous," replied Sherlock. "John, you are not a liability, far from it. Besides, that doesn't even matter. You could be a pathetic animal unable to walk and you still wouldn't be a liability, not to me. I will take care of you, John. How could I not, I..." Sherlock stopped there and threw his head over the side of the sofa, a move he often did when he was in distress.

John sighed, not wanting to create tension or cause an argument. Instead he sat up, grabbing Sherlock's hands as he did, so they were both in sitting position.

"Come on, let's head to bed." John said.

"I've been meaning to ask you something,' said Sherlock, looking john in the eyes. "Are you going to consider moving your clothing and what not into the downstairs bedroom, it makes sense to me, I don't know about you."

John thought about this for a quick moment. It really did make sense. Maybe he would leave a few things upstairs though, just in case.

"I'll move my things down tomorrow," John replied, smiling.

"Excellent!" Sherlock sprang up to his feet. "I am rather tired John, bed does sound like a very clever idea."

John only nodded, standing up and following Sherlock into the bedroom. He was actually exhausted. It had been a long time since he had run all around London. They had both explored the city together; it had left him more than ready for a good night's sleep. He ambled in the room suddenly hit by a wave of fatigue, and drowsily removed his clothes before collapsing into the bed. He was sure to say goodnight to his flatmate, before curling up and drifting off to sleep.


	38. Chemistry

_19-2_

Sherlock lay in bed, staring at the ceiling. It had been around three hours since John fell asleep, he had been sleeping since the second his head hit the pillow. However, sleep had evaded him, and he lay in the darkened room, his only companion his forever working brain. He positioned himself with his knees up and his hands together in the centre of his body. To some it might seem as if he was sat praying, but quite the contrary, he found it the best position when he needed to think. His flatmate lay next to him in the foetal position, occasionally twitching and murmuring with war torn nightmares. When this happened, Sherlock placed a warm hand upon the doctor's shoulders, and after a few moments he settled back into a more calm state. Sherlock however, could not calm himself.

He had nearly said three very strange words to John. Three words he wanted very much so to say. However, he felt conflicted. He had felt for John since the day he moved in the flat. They were so different very so much the same. It was almost as if they fit together, complimenting each other and keeping each other sane and safe. Without Sherlock, John would be a bitter, lifeless veteran, and without John, Sherlock would be an unhinged, sociopathic addict, and quite possibly, he would be dead. He was incredibly grateful that this strange man had grounded him in a way, brought him safely back to earth. John was wrong in his comments earlier, very wrong. In no way was the doctor a danger or a burden, he was a much needed release and second opinion. He loved to bounce ideas off of John; it kept his mind alive and made his work much more enjoyable.

He settled back down into the bed. John had started whimpering again, so Sherlock reached around John, spooning him from behind. Almost immediately the whimpering stopped, and Sherlock loosened his grip on John's torso, but only slightly, he was enjoying the warmth and comfort. When John was having one of his nightmares, Sherlock secretly enjoyed it, he enjoyed being able to show care for someone, it was so strange yet comforting for himself. It had been a long time since someone needed him, and even longer still since someone realised he needed them.

He was becoming so comfortable with their relationship, very much so. He enjoyed showing subtle affection in public; he loved holding John close at night. There was that word again. The word he refused to say. He felt if it was said out loud the whole illusion would shatter and everything would fall apart. He had no experience in such matters, and he didn't particularly want to experience what others called heartbreak, it most definitely wasn't on his agenda. He hated the inexperience, the confusion; it wasn't something he felt comfortable with. He was used to being an expert in all areas, being superior to everyone else. When it came to the matter of relationships, he was a novice, utterly clueless. When it came to John he was just clutching at straws in the dark, hoping everything worked out okay. He knew that would run out sooner or later though, he was bound to trip up and make a grim mistake; it had to happen at some point.

He wondered if it had all been a bad idea, becoming intimate with John. However much he tried to persuade himself otherwise though, he was happy in his decision, and more than content in the place they were now. He didn't need to say those words; he simply wasn't ready to lay himself out like that. He imagined though, when the right time arose, he would have absolutely no problem saying it.

He turned his head towards the window, observing the stars visible through the gap in the curtain. Beautiful really. Entirely irrelevant, and pointless, but still mesmerizingly beautiful. In one way, the stars and the sky to him were very much like John Watson. He didn't understand a thing about them, their behaviour and existence completely baffled him. But my, how he appreciated them, how he revelled in their beauty and enchantment. He would never admit it to John, and definitely not to anyone else, how much this man really had captivated and entrapped him. He found it odd John had never asked why the rich Sherlock had sought out a flatmate. He wondered if he never asked because he had already caught on. The truth was an experiment, a lab rat. However the second John Watson entered that room in St Barts it became so much more. It became a yearning to visit unexplored territory, a thrilling desire for companionship and oh so much more. And he had got it. It had taken time, much more time than he would have liked, but he finally found they were both where he intended for them to be. Although at the time he never imagined what he was seeking from John was a romantic partnership, but he was so glad that's how things had turned out, he really couldn't be more content with the situation.

Nevertheless as much as he tried to solely focus on the wonderful man lying next to him, his mind was still plagued with fear and anger towards Moriarty. The man was coming for John, he knew it now. Before, his threats were empty; appealing to a sentimental and emotional side Sherlock didn't think he had. But Moriarty was a clever man, maybe he had noticed the chemistry between the two before either of them had even realised. The thought made Sherlock feel sick, he had been bested in skills of deduction, and he had created jeopardy. He didn't know what to do; he didn't know how to keep John safe. The only way was to kill Moriarty, to stop him for good, but he couldn't do that without murdering innocent people. Was he willing to endanger other people's lives to ensure the safety of John Watson? He wasn't sure of that, and he knew if such a thing did happen, John would never forgive him.

He turned back towards the centre of the bed, to rest his head upon Johns, not to sleep, but to feel comforted, to try and banish away his worry. He knew he had to somehow come up with a solution to everything, and this game had to be ended once and for all. The man was clever, almost as clever as Sherlock, and he was too dangerous for anyone to comprehend, sometimes too much for even Sherlock. That chemistry between him and the doctor, and Moriarty's observation, had the potential to undo everything, to put John Watson in an early grave and to burn the heart out of Sherlock Holmes.


	39. Suspicions

_20-1_

John sighed as he fought his way through the London crowds. He had left the flat two hours previously, armed with Sherlock's credit card and a list of errands. Sherlock had commented how he was eager to start his experiments this morning, making John more than eager to leave the flat. He had a large list of errands to run, the most important one, and pick up a fridge. He had just left the nightmare of the electronics store, less than satisfied with his venture. It took him almost half an hour to find a shop assistant to purchase the refrigerator he wanted, only to be told he would have to wait five to seven days for delivery. He was sick of having to run down to Mrs Hudson's to steal milk every time he wanted a cup of tea, and eating takeaway every night was making him feel sluggish and unhealthy.

He turned into the supermarket now, planning on picking up something edible for dinner. Although walking around the shop, however he couldn't seem to find anything he particularly wanted to eat. He feared he was turning into Sherlock, eating only on rare occasions. He picked up some spaghetti and a pasta sauce jar, deciding that something simple would have to do. He wandered aimlessly around the aisles for a while, before picking up a sandwich and a bottle of water and heading for the tills. He decided against self-service, he had terribly bad luck with the machines, and it was probably quicker for him to go to a proper till. He waited patiently with his basket behind a couple. Bored with the line, he found himself doing what Sherlock did, observing instead of just watching. He noticed when the man gingerly wrapped his arms around the girl's waist, and she laughed nervously and moved her hand as if to push him away, but then held his hand in place. John recognised this as behaviour of a new relationship, and it irked him when he realised where he had most recently seen similar behaviour. Sherlock and he had behaved exactly the same the previous day in St Barts. As much as he was initially embarrassed by Sherlock's public affection and by molly's discouraging glares, he very much wanted Sherlock's hand around his waist, and his heart twanged when the detective let go so they could leave.

He watched the couple leave hand in hand, and ambled towards the counter in a solemn mood; quickly packing his groceries and heading back out into the bustling streets of London. It was almost lunch, and he wondered if it was safe to return back to the flat. He took out his phone and sent a text to Sherlock. He wished the man was contactable by calling, but he never picked up.

_Is the flat still covered in body parts, or is it safe to come home? John._

He began to walk down the street, phone in his hand, as he anticipated Sherlock's speedy reply.

_Small fire in the flat. Not to panic, it's under control. Feel free to occupy yourself until dinner. Angelo is sending over dinner for six. SH_

John sighed, deciding it really was unsafe to leave Sherlock alone to his own devices. He quickly typed a reply.

_Be careful; remember you have broken bones and other injuries. I will check them for you after dinner. Can we make it five? I'm starving. John._

As usual, an immediate reply.

_Don't worry Doctor. And examination is more than welcomed. Dinner at five then. Yours, SH._

The 'yours' made Johns heart leap into his mouth and made his palms slick with sweat. Instead of heading to Baker Street, he carried on past, stopping when he reached Regents Park. He had two hours until dinner, he hoped to spend some time thinking and relaxing, before stopping off at Daunt Books for a medical journal he had ordered a while ago.

He sat down on a bench to rest, and took his water out of the carrier bag. He sat and watched the people walk by, at this time the park was rather busy, despite the rather bitter weather. Everything seemed normal, relaxing to john. He did then; catch a man in the corner of his eye. He shrugged it off, imagining him to just be a passer by, and he turned away, turning his attention to his lunch. However no less than half an hour later, he saw the man again, walking in the distance, most definitely looking in his direction. John continued as if he hadn't noticed the man, and continued to look at the paper he had bought just after leaving the flat. He began to rack his brain, and realised, he was sure the man had been around earlier when he was doing his shopping. He felt slightly worried, but surely he was wrong. Maybe Lestrade had set on an extra police officer to watch him while Sherlock was in the flat. He concluded that was the most logical reason, surely Moriarty wouldn't bother having him followed? He tried to shake off his doubt and nervous feelings, sure that he was imagining things, and that the man was surely a plain clothed police officer, and nothing at all to worry about.

He glanced at his watch, nearly four o'clock. That gave him an hour to take a leisurely walk down to the bookstore, before returning to the flat in time for dinner. He threw his rubbish in the nearby bin, folded his paper under his arm, and walked towards the street with his shopping bag in the other hand. He found himself rather looking forward to his return, he always enjoyed Angelo's meals, and a proper cooked meal was a wonderful prospect. He just hoped whatever Sherlock had set alight wasn't too valuable or important, he couldn't handle having to purchase a new sofa after Sherlock decided to see how leather burned, or some other madcap idea.

He neared the bookstore, glad to slip inside away from the hustle and bustle of Paddington and into the lovely world of musty and beautiful books.


	40. Distractions

_20-2_

At five pm, both men settled down to a meal cooked for them by Angelo. Sherlock was grateful for Angelo helping out; he even sent his busboy over to deliver the food. He had noticed how much John had been grumbling about the lack of refrigeration and proper cuisine, so he called up Angelo to ask a favour, which the man was more than happy to oblige. He also hoped a delicious meal would soften the blow of the fire damaged microwave. Sure enough as soon as John had walked in to see the blackened appliance he looked ready to explode in a rage of chastising and worry. Sherlock however was not in the mood to be treat like a naughty child, and hurried John over to the dining table before any more could be said on the matter.

They both sat in silence for a period while they enjoyed their food. The only sound audible were the scraping of cutlery upon plates and the hum of traffic from outside the window. Both of them were content with the silence though, comfortable with each other's company now that silence wasn't awkward and unpleasant, instead it was full of mutual and appreciative feelings for each other's company. Sherlock recalled the last time they sat down for dinner to be the fateful night when he cooked an elaborate meal, too elaborate looking back, but nevertheless the desired effect was achieved, something he took pride in. He noticed John seemed just as happy with his simple Italian dish from Angelo's, and noted to himself that, in future, he need not try too hard to impress John, as he was a man who appreciated simple pleasures. They both finished at the same time, Sherlock leaning back into the chair as he finished his wine, deciding the time for silence was over.

"Enjoy your day away from me?" He enquired.

"Yes, yes it was fine," answered John rather quickly, quick enough to arouse suspicion from Sherlock. As much as he tried to refrain from deducing John, sometimes the doctor made it too easy to resist.

He leaned forward and filled up both of the now empty glasses. He had consumed a bottle before John came home and was feeling rather intoxicated, though not enough so that his judgements were hazy.

"Are you sure? Nothing unusual or distressing happen?"

John shifted uncomfortably in his chair, and Sherlock sensed he was ready to say something he had held back.

"There was a man following me," John started. "At first I was rather worried, not knowing who he was. Then I figured; it must have been a policeman working for Lestrade, so I really was worrying for nothing."

John took a large gulp of wine, rather nervously, and Sherlock knew he wasn't telling the whole truth. John had jumped to the safest conclusion as most men do when faced with danger. It was obvious that John wanted to say no more on the matter, and neither did Sherlock want to press it. He knew full well that the man was not an officer of Lestrade, he wouldn't have thought it worthwhile having John watched, he didn't think he was the target. Yet Sherlock knew better, and he knew this was likely the beginning of Moriarty's scheme. Instead he himself finished off his glass of wine and took to his feet, resisting the urge to sway slightly. The rush of air to his brain had made the effects of alcohol suddenly hit him.

"Shall we retire to the bedroom?" He asked John, holding out his hand to help the doctor up.

John looked at him quizzically. "It's only six; we can't go to bed at this time."

"I wasn't suggesting sleep," Sherlock scoffed. "But never mind, the sofa will do for what I have in mind."

Sherlock smirked at John's confused and shocked impression, only increasing when he grabbed John by his hands and pulled him onto the sofa. The two tumbled down in a tangled mess of limbs as Sherlock began to kiss Johns lips, his face, his body. John seemed taken aback, not knowing what to do with himself, flailing about awkwardly against Sherlock's grip. As the detective's kisses became calmer and more passionate, he stopped flapping around, and began to enjoy the sudden outburst of emotion.

Sherlock may have wanted to kiss John, but that was only his second reason for the ambush of affection. He wanted to take Johns mind off the man following him; he knew the doctor was still thinking about it. He knew nothing could be done, not even he could see a solution yet, his only choice was distract John and make him forget about Moriarty as much as possible. He wanted the doctor to feel safe and protected, and it worried him that he didn't know how. All he could do for the time being was showing him affection and try to reassure him that he was there to keep him safe. Although usually the situations were much different, (usually John was the one saving Sherlock) now he knew that his flatmate was in direct danger he had to put aside his erratic behaviours and focus on John's safety.

He continued his kisses, paying special attention to John's neck. He slowly removed John's jumper with care, and began tracing kisses upon john's clavicle, his favourite part of the man's body. He let his hands run up and down John's chest, and found himself rather surprised when John caught a hold of his hand, and began to direct him towards his jeans. Sherlock eagerly complied, happy to please John in any way possible, happy for the intimacy and the contact he longed for whenever he was in the same room as John. He relished the times he didn't have to control himself, when he was able to place his hands upon John's body and satisfy him to the best of his ability.

He began to paw at Johns jeans, attempting to remove them while John worked quickly on Sherlock's shirt buttons. He shivered with anticipation as John leaned his head up and placed kisses upon his chest, and he struggled to stop his brain going into overdrive. He threw off John's jeans and underwear, frustrated with the material preventing him from touching his man. He began to trace kisses down Johns stomach, becoming even more aroused himself as John twisted his fingers into his curly hair and used his grip to guide Sherlock. It was a surprising turn of events for him, he was used to being the one in control, in all situations, but he was more than happy to bow down to John Watson. At that point in time, he would have happily given the man everything he asked for. He hungrily kissed and flicked his tongue as John directed him still, his concentration becoming blurred and his senses exploding as John began to moan and write, words such as 'Oh Sherlock' escaping his lips. He continued to increase his pace, moving together with John, murmuring under the grip of Doctor Watson. He smiled as John exclaimed and shuddered, climaxing hard, causing Sherlock's entire being to shudder and shake with pleasure. The grip on Sherlock's hair did not loosen, and John jerked Sherlock's head up towards his, planting a firm and passionate kiss upon Sherlock's lips, causing his knees to buckle, making him collapse upon John's shoulder. He nuzzled the man's neck, exhausted, yet satisfied, satisfied in the fact Johns mind seemed to be soothed and distracted, and entirely satisfied by the waves of pleasure and lust which still washed over the two as they lay upon the sofa in each other's arms.


	41. Good Morning

_21-1_

The next morning John sat in his chair pondering the email Sarah had sent him last night. He had only just got round to checking his laptop, he had been so busy with Sherlock the past few days that he hadn't had chance to even pick it up, let alone check his emails. Late last night, Sarah had asked when he was returning to the surgery, stating that another doctor was off sick, and they were struggling, what with flu season arriving and patients mounting up. She ended the email by hinting that if he wasn't planning on returning soon, she would seek out another doctor. This annoyed him somewhat. While Sherlock had made it perfectly clear he didn't mind providing for them both financially, John could never accept that, it made him feel rather inferior and unequal. Besides, sometimes he actually liked his job; it was really the only part of his life that was relatively normal.

He faced an even larger problem though, which was how would he ensure Sherlock's safety while he was away. Not that he could do much to keep Moriarty away, but he was sure always to have his army pistol on him and would not hesitate to fire it again in order to save Sherlock. His fingers hovered nervously over the keys not quite knowing what to say or do about the whole situation. He knew it was going to be impossible putting off going back to the clinic, if he wanted to keep his job. Maybe he could call Mycroft and ask him to spend time with Sherlock, although he imagined that would end in bloody murder, the pair were clawing at each other's throats after more than five minutes in the same room. He definitely couldn't bring Sherlock into the clinic with him, he would just start stealing medical supplies and irritating his patients to the point where one of them would attack him. Leaving him alone really was out of the question upon reflecting all the facts. What with his recent discovery of Sherlock's cocaine use, his distressed mental state and his penchant for trouble, it really would be a dire mistake to leave him alone while he was at work.

He sighed and began to type a hasty reply to Sarah's work email, explaining that he would be in work tomorrow, but he would need to come in to the clinic today to discuss certain matters. He had decided to take Sherlock to St Barts before his shift began; he recalled Molly had mentioned something about having some cadavers available for experimentation, something surely too tempting for Sherlock to pass on. That would hopefully keep him occupied while he was working at the clinic, and hopefully the police officers watching him would provide at least some protection in case something strange were to occur.

He shut up his laptop, and kicked up his feet to enjoy his black tea, closing his eyes and almost dozing off. Sherlock's entrance into the room however prevented that, and he sat up with a start, the man grinning at him from the other side of the room. Sherlock had just exited the bathroom, wearing nothing but a pair of loose boxers, his wet hair dripping all over the floor. The sight of him like that made john squirm, he had to grip his cup of tea hard to stop himself running over there and ambushing Sherlock. The detective clearly knew the effect he was having on John as he only grinned wider and then began to partake in a very theatrical display of stretching his limbs. To most people the sight of a gangly awkward man stretching all over the place would have probably made them feel rather off put, but strange even to him, John saw Sherlock as a majestic sort of creature, both in his mind and his appearance; to him Sherlock was everything and more. He tried to shake his mind away from his ever wandering thoughts as his watched Sherlock's peacock display.

"Anyone looking up at the window would be able to see your ridiculous spectacle," John pointed out as nonchalantly as he could muster, taking a sip of his tea as he did so.

Sherlock smiled broader still, then proceeded to turn away from John, only to begin the ridiculous act of bending up and down, touching his toes. Unable to take any more of the teasing, John grabbed the newspaper lying by his side and launched it as Sherlock, hitting him square across the head. He turned around sporting a puppy dog pout, and proceeded to plonk himself on the floor, rubbing the back of his head and pouting as if in immense pain.

John chuckled, while sometimes Sherlock's childish behaviour was exhausting and testing, other times he found it enjoyable and humorous, and today, he really didn't mind playing along.

"Need a doctor?" John asked, smiling over.

Sherlock nodded quickly, his bottom lip quivering and his eyes filling with well planned tears. John put his mug down on the table and went over to where Sherlock was sitting. He sat down behind him and placed his legs either side of Sherlock's body. He gently ran a hand through Sherlock's wet hair, massaging his scalp as he did so. He placed his other hand upon Sherlock's still damp chest, pressing their bodies together so to steady himself. Sherlock leaned forward to support John's hair and murmured softly, as john ran his fingers through his hair.

"Feeling better?" smiled john, placing his lips upon the nape of Sherlock's neck.

"Much better," he answered. "Quite possibly the best medical service I have ever received.

"The _only_ medical service you mean," chuckled john. "You never visit a doctor when you're injured; even I have to force you to let me take care of you."

"And what a wonderful job you do," murmured Sherlock, rolling his head as he enjoyed his massage. "You're going into the clinic today aren't you John."

John rested his hand upon Sherlock's cheek softly, and kissed his neck once more. "Yes, only for an hour, is that alright."

"Mmm yes," murmured Sherlock. "Can I ask something of you though john?"

"Of course, anything."

"Can we sit here, just for a while?"

John said no more, instead he resumed running his fingers through Sherlock's soft curls, resting his head upon the man's shoulder, and there they sat in silence from then on, enjoying each other, for so long neither could remember why they were sat on the floor in each other's arms in the first place.


	42. One Pip

_21-2_

Sherlock had been asleep in his chair for over two hours when the phone rang. John had promised he would try to be no longer than an hour, but it seemed he must have been caught up at the office. Almost as soon as John had left, Sherlock had gotten dressed and slumped down in his chair. He had intended to work on an experiment, but in less than five minutes, he had managed to doze off. It was entirely his own fault, he spent too many nights nowadays lying awake watching John, partly making sure the doctor wasn't too plagued with nightmares, and partly enjoying the time they had together, not wanting to sleep through it.

Unfortunately, his mid-morning nap had not been pleasant. His dreams were plagued with recurring thoughts of the incident at the pool. He remembered everything in detail, as he always did, but he remembered every single painful point of this occurrence. He remembered the way his heart had dropped and his knees had shaken when john had stepped out of the changing rooms. For one heart wrenching moment, he honestly believed that John was his enemy, that the detective had been operating right under his nose, that he had been so dangerously clever. He was almost relieved when John revealed his bomb, but not for long, not when he realised John Watson's life was at stake. This was one game he could not afford to lose. His dream wandered over details which plagued him, the furious emotions he felt when he realised Moriarty had been in the same room as him, vulnerable and unarmed, yet he had failed to notice it. His mind then drifted to the scene after Moriarty had escaped the first time, how john had waited until he had left the poolside to collapse on the floor, how Sherlock desperately persuaded himself to stay upright, how he forced his own knees not to buckle.

He awoke certainly with a start when he heard the phone ringing. This was because the ring wasn't coming from the blackberry in his pocket. It was coming from the pink iphone hidden away in a drawer. He jumped out of the seat and launched himself over to the desk where the phone was hidden, yanking open the drawer and pulling it out. _Unknown Number_. It didn't matter to him, he knew who was calling.

"Hello?" He said, the phone pressed too firmly to his ear.

He was met with a reply, one he was hoping wouldn't come. There was no voice on the other end, no puppet attached to semtex. Instead there was only one long, loud beep.

Sherlock hung up, knowing there was no other message. He threw the phone back down on the table and sat down in the desk chair, trying to control himself. He knew what was coming, and it was coming for John, not for him. John was the only thing that mattered to him, and Moriarty would be sure to destroy that little bit of hope in Sherlock's life before he killed him for good. Besides protecting John with his life, he didn't know what else he could do. He knew he was going to say nothing to John. The pip on the phone was meant to taunt him, to drive him mad, not to worry john. Besides he had decided anyway John would not know that he was Moriarty's target all along, which he was going to be used as a way to get to Sherlock. He already considered himself a burden, and Sherlock refused to make him feel like him being there made things worse. All he knew right now was that he refused to let Moriarty take away the one thing that mattered to him, and if he had to stand in front of a rain of bullets or throw himself on top of a bomb to save John, he would, without a doubt.

He stood up and began to pace the apartment, running his fingers through his hair in frustration. It didn't relax him like it had done previously, only made him frustrated more at John's absence, and yearn for his return. It was times like this he would normally take to substances or interesting cases to soothe his frustrated brain, but he had promised to John he would abstain from either; as much as they both tempted him.

He pulled his phone out of his pocket and quickly typed out a text message to John.

_Hurry back. I am bored without my doctor to entertain me. I miss you. SH_

He deleted and retyped the last sentence three times before he decided to send it. It was disgustingly sentimental, yet he felt an overwhelming urge to tell John. He continued his pacing after he realised he wasn't going to get a reply. John was probably still arguing with Sarah. The woman had a great deal of affection for John, and she was extremely jealous that she could not have him, however much she tried. That tiny little detail put a small smile on Sherlock's face, he liked the fact that others wanted John, yet the man now only had eyes for him.

He desperately wanted to keep up appearances, to not cause distress with john and keep him happy for as long as possible, but at the same time he was distressed himself, besieged with the urge to hold john and not let him go for fear of losing him. He slumped back down in his armchair, feeling utterly defeated by the whole matter, by his complete helplessness. All he wanted to do was protect John and catch Moriarty, but how could he do one, without losing the other? How could he keep his companion safe and well, away from the clutches of the madman? It seemed an impossible feat, even for a genius like him, yet he was determined, absolute in the fact he would not let a man like Jim Moriarty best him, in any way at all.


	43. Lust

_22-1_

John came back to the flat to find Sherlock lying flat on his back in the middle of the living room. The detective dramatically lifted his head to look at the door, before flopping it back onto the floor.

John dropped his bag on the floor. He walked over to Sherlock and proceeded to sit on him, his knees either side of Sherlock hips, and his weight pressing on top of Sherlock's groin. Sherlock began to make an attempt to get up, but john held his wrists down on the floor, grinning as he did so. Sherlock's previous text had put him in an incredibly good mood, he felt appreciated and wanted, which filled him with feelings of desire and lust. He also felt superior. Knowing that Sherlock was having these feelings towards him, that when he was gone he felt a longing for him to return; it made him feel important and in control.

He leant down slowly, and began to trace light kisses along Sherlock's jaw line, barely touching his skin, doing it just enough that Sherlock could feel his hot breath upon his face, and shudder with want. As his kisses continued he let go of Sherlock's wrist, and trailed his fingers along his arm, across his chest, finally letting his hand slip underneath Sherlock's perfectly fitter shirt, caressing his warm delicious skin. John felt Sherlock's hips unintentionally buck with lust as he felt around his body; he even caught the detective mentally cursing himself for showing such weakness. He was trying to act nonchalant, but his body said otherwise. He flicked his tongue across Sherlock's ear, breathing heavily as the touch of Sherlock's chest aroused him. He began to whisper gleefully in Sherlock's ear, as he lightly raked his fingers across Sherlock's abs.

"Tell me how much you missed me."

Sherlock whimpered at his touch, it seemed he was struggling to form a coherent sentence.

"Tell me," purred John, digging his nails in, harder this time.

"More...more than you know," Sherlock breathed heavily, his sweet deep voice swimming round Johns head, making him dizzy.

He removed his hand and began to play with Sherlock's shirt buttons, teasing, taking his time to unbutton them, caressing Sherlock's chest every time he undid another one.

"How much do you want me," he asked, this time, nipping Sherlock's earlobe playfully with his teeth.

"So much John, so much."

He was more than satisfied with Sherlock's answer, now hastily undoing the rest of the buttons, removing Sherlock's shirt quickly. He jumped up, pulling up Sherlock as he did so. John took off his jacket as Sherlock stood with a rather confused look on his face, not understanding why john had suddenly stopped and stood up.

"If you want me so much, you are going to have to come into the bedroom and show me," grinned John, walking off into the room, not looking behind him, and unbuckling his trousers as he did so. He knelt on the bed as he entered, beginning to unbutton his shirt, listening for Sherlock's entrance.

Sure enough Sherlock followed with haste, sitting on the bed behind John, in a similar position to how they both had sat this morning. Sherlock began to help John unbutton his work shirt, and one of johns hands wandered behind him, feeling around Sherlock's body. Now it was johns turn to be at a loss for words, the feel of Sherlock's nimble fingers working at his shirt made him dizzy with lust, and he hungered for passion with Sherlock.

"Have me Sherlock," he growled as his hands began to wander.

As if the words were a war cry, Sherlock snapped out of his passionate daze and became the ferocious animal john yearned for. Sherlock spun around john, laying him on the bed, and quickly removed his trousers. Johns head spun, and he had to close his eyes and bathe in the electric currents running through his body every time Sherlock touched him. Sherlock's kisses were frantic now, he used his teeth, and his perfectly trimmed fingernails dug deep into john's skin. He paused for a short while, as if he was admiring John's almost naked form, and John noted the large grin that formed on his face. He stalked forward and sat on johns lap, wrapping his legs around him, kissing him passionately. John hungrily kissed him back, but as they kissed, almost as if they had never kissed before and would never kiss again, Johns desire shifted. He no longer felt overpowering lust and a need for sexual contact with Sherlock. He wanted to be encased in his long slender arms and legs; he wanted to run his hands across his body, but nothing more; for he didn't want a second where his brain couldn't focus on the man in front of him. Sherlock began to move his lips down to \johns clavicle, giving him air to breathe, and speak.

"Let us just stay like this Sherlock," he whispered, burying his face in Sherlock's hair and inhaling deeply. "I missed you too."

Sherlock's grip seemed to tighten then, so much that John could hardly breathe. He did not stop kissing, and John did not remove his face from Sherlock's beautiful hair, but he swore he felt a little splash on his chest, almost as if Sherlock had shed a tear. He thought it too strange though, he had never seen Sherlock cry, and he couldn't imagine the detective was even capable of that, he just wasn't that sort of person.

John lifted up Sherlock's face so he could kiss his soft lips once more. The taste of Sherlock excited him, the act of exploring his mouth made his body and mind fill with a fire, a warm, pleasant glow which felt as if it could burn forever. He felt satisfied with what he could come home to, overjoyed that he had someone who truly cared for him, and while he may have gained a relationship, he felt he had not lost a friend, and to him, that was the most brilliant thing.


	44. Strange Occurrences

22-2

The next morning Sherlock woke late and alone, only to find a note from Doctor Watson sitting on the pillow next to him. He felt groggy, and had to rub his eyes several times to bring them into focus. He leaned over and grabbed up the note, holding it in the air so he could read it.

_Gone to work Sherlock, sorry to dash off, didn't want to wake you. Molly says she has some specimens in if you want to go occupy yourself there. I will be back at five. Yours, John Watson._

Sherlock smiled sleepily, before lying back down in bed. It was actually quite thoughtful of john to suggest he visit molly, especially when the doctor didn't exactly approve of his morgue visits or experiments. He did understand, he knew he had strange hobbies, but he just found the human body and criminology so interesting, and together he thought they were absolutely wonderful. He lay in his bed for a while, trying to wake himself up without too much effort. He had hours before john returned from work, and as usual, he hadn't gotten much sleep. He had drifted off to sleep in the early hours of the morning, only to be woken up soon after by fireworks, something he found very odd to say it was September and they lived on a main road in central London.

He got out of bed slowly, ambling towards his wardrobe. He thumbed through his clothes, and removed a pair of black trousers and a navy cotton shirt. Both were excruciatingly expensive, and fit him perfectly. He laid them out neatly on the bed, taking care to not put any creases in either garments. He then stretched and yawned dramatically, staring out of the window as he did so. Dressed only in loose fitting Calvin Klein's, it probably wasn't the best idea to stand in front of the window. He stopped mid-stretch and noticed the five black cabs sat directly across from his flat. Not one had a driver; they all just sat there in a line, unoccupied. He found it very strange, considering taxis never parked down Baker Street, and it was most definitely peculiar for five to do so and then leave them unattended.

He tried to ignore the strange occurrence and headed to the bathroom. He took a quick shower, it was far too hot, but he rather enjoyed the burning sensation upon his skin. He took care when washing his chest, carefully avoiding his broken ribs, wishing John was there to help him out. He thoroughly enjoyed taking showers with john, although he did not find them arousing, he found them almost equally pleasurable to the times when john were asleep, it was comforting and intimate. He finished the shower quickly, and then proceeded to re-bandage his ribs then dress swiftly. He re-entered the living room, only to find himself puzzled. On top of his desk sat the pink iphone. He was perplexed; he was sure that he had put it back in the drawer after his phone call yesterday. He walked over and picked it up, looking over it, before opening the drawer and placing it back where it belonged. The only conclusion he could come to was that John was searching for something in the desk, and while removing things, forgot to put the phone back, most likely because he was in a hurry for work.

Sherlock picked up his coat off of the stand along with his favourite blue scarf and dressed, ready to leave for St Barts. He pulled his phone out of his pocket, intending to make sure molly was ready for him before he set off.

_On my way over, John says you have some interesting specimens for me. SH_

He placed his phone upon the coffee table as he waited for a reply, and began to lace up his shoes. Quicker than usual, his phone buzzed, indicating a new text.

_Hey Sherlock, no nothing for you here at Barts. Sorry! See you in a few weeks! Love Molly x_

Sherlock found that very strange. To begin with, why would she tell them both a few days she would have something in, and then confirm it with john, only to tell Sherlock otherwise? Then there was the way she signed off the conversation: 'see you in a few weeks'. Sherlock knew she wasn't planning a trip, and that she would be nowhere but at the morgue. Unless she was planning an impromptu get away from work, he couldn't understand why she assumed she wouldn't see him in weeks.

He sunk down in his chair. He found himself very confused at occurrences going on today, many things had been very strange, and he had no explanation for them. He decided to text John to check in, but at the same time he didn't want to arouse suspicion.

_How's work going? Molly has nothing for me. Bored. SH_

He sat in his chair listening to the traffic. A reply didn't come for almost twenty minutes. John must've been busy with a patient.

_Madness, I'm swamped with snotty kids. I'll be home soon; I got some new books if you want to read them. On the desk. Yours, John._

Sherlock dropped his phone in his pocket, satisfied that john was safe. He walked over to the desk to pick up one of johns books before returning to his chair. He tried to read but he found he couldn't concentrate, his brain was swimming, trying to piece together all the strange occurrences that had happened to him this morning. He did hope that they were not connected and all were strange coincidences, and he severely hoped they had nothing to do with the phone call he received from Moriarty. While he knew that the man planned to strike, he hoped it was something that he could anticipate. He sunk lower into the chair in an attempt to become more comfortable and concentrated on the book in his hand, determined to move his mind away from worry and despair.


	45. So It Begins

23-1

John sat at his desk, once again almost falling asleep. The mid-morning rush had died down, and he had no patients to see now until one. He had decided to work on his paperwork for another twenty minutes before heading out to lunch. However he became absolutely too bored with the forms, and found his eyes becoming heavy. He had slept soundly last night; he always did when Sherlock slept with him. Nowadays his nightmares were much less frequent, and definitely a lot less violent. After he left the army, all he thought about was the war; it absolutely consumed him, both in reality and in his dreams. Although as much as the violence and bloodshed distressed him, when he was first discharged, he had found himself missing the action. Mycroft had picked up on it during their first encounter, and he had no doubt that Sherlock too had noticed it, but perhaps he thought it too sensitive to mention, and left his thoughts to himself. He definitely couldn't say though, that when around Sherlock his life was devoid of danger, it was quite the opposite. Even sat in his doctor's office in the middle of London, his pistol sat comfortably in his coat pocket. He wouldn't be leaving home without it again.

He dawdled over the last few sheets, not paying terrible attention with what he was doing, rather thinking and worrying about Sherlock. His intention was to take the same taxi with him this morning and drop him off at Barts, but when he awoke for work, Sherlock was still fast asleep. He didn't have the heart to wake him, he knew the detective had been struggling to sleep recently, he assumed it was because he was worried about Moriarty's threats towards him. John could certainly understand if the threats were being directed at him instead of the detective, he was sure he too would have trouble sleeping. As if Sherlock's ears were burning from the thoughts he was having, his phone, sat in front of him, beeped to alert him of a new message.

_How's work going? Molly has nothing for me. Bored. SH. _

He was just about to reply when someone rapped lightly on his office door. In walked the receptionist, her name was Amy as he recalled. She was a nice enough girl; she didn't even look twenty, and seemed satisfied with her position in the clinic, despite the amount of people she had to deal with every day.

"Sorry, are you headed out for lunch soon?" she asked, sounding apologetic, although what or, john didn't know.

"Yeah I should be in about ten minutes I think," he answered smiling at her.

"Oh well, sorry to ask but, I'm really swamped with all these documents I have to sort for Sarah. You couldn't do me a massive favour and pick me some lunch up could you? I wouldn't ask, it's just I'm starving and Sarah would kill me if I left."

"No absolutely not, what would you like?" asked john with a warm and friendly smile.

She beamed at him clearly relieved. "Just a sandwich would be lovely, chicken if they've got it!"

With that she scarpered back to her work, and john leaned back into his desk to sort out the sheets he had just filled out in correct piles. He sighed at the tedious work he had to do, it seemed when he wasn't at work he had this idea it was interesting and fun, yet as soon as he sat down in his desk he almost fell asleep and couldn't wait for five o'clock to roll around so he could go home. He put all his folders into the filing cabinet to his left, and shrugged on his coat ready to head out. He picked up his phone and remembered he meant to reply to Sherlock about how his morning had been, once Amy walked in it had completely slipped his mind. He typed a quick reply.

_Madness, I'm swamped with snotty kids. I'll be home soon; I got some new books if you want to read them. On the desk. Yours, John._

He pocketed his mobile and headed out onto the streets, nodding in a friendly manner to Amy at the reception desk as he walked past. As the cold London air hit him, he plunged his bare hands into his pockets and quickened his pace. He planned on heading to the nearest Tesco Metro. He had contemplated going back to the flat to check on Sherlock, but Amy's request meant he probably wouldn't have time.

He rounded three streets rushing through the crowd only to be stopped in his tracks by a man he had been dreading to see. Jim Moriarty stood in front of him, impeccably dressed in a designer suit, with a smug smile on his face. Instinctively John went to grab his weapon.

"Don't be stupid," laughed Moriarty. "We are in a street full of crowded people John; you wouldn't dare fire your weapon. I on the other hand, have no such problem."

As he expected, he looked down to see three red sniper targets focusing on his chest.

"What do you want?" he snarled, half with anger and half with terror. If Moriarty was now making a move, he had absolutely no clue if Sherlock was safe or not.

"Get in the car," said Moriarty simply, gesturing towards the black Lexus parked up next to him.

"And if I refuse?" he challenged, his hands balled up into fists.

He laughed deeply. "First I start firing at random pedestrians. And if you still don't comply, I start firing at you."

John gritted his teeth. He saw no way out of this except do as Moriarty instructed and get in the car. He glanced over and the door opened for him, a large gentleman dressed all in black sat in the back seat. A black screen separated the back and the front of the car. John reluctantly entered the car, only to be handcuffed by the other man, and have a bag placed over his head. Soon after he assumed Moriarty had got in the front, and the car started rolling to an unknown destination. He just hoped that for now Sherlock was safe and alive.


	46. The Game Is On

23-2

Sherlock had expected his afternoon to be pleasant, relaxing, and bordering on boring. He had actually enjoyed the first medical journal; it had some interesting opinions on the effects of certain substances on the brain. He had picked up the second one only five minutes ago, and had moved from his chair to lay himself down on the sofa. He had kicked off his shoes and lay with half his shirt buttons undone. About ten minutes ago he had made himself a cup of black coffee, feeling rather proud of himself since john chastised him normally for not being able to make his own drinks. It wasn't that he was incapable, it was just that he found the whole process excruciatingly boring, and he could tell that John actually enjoyed the process of making hot beverages, and he had a feeling that secretly, the doctor didn't actually mind doing things for him, he just complained for the sake of it. He snuggled into the sofa with the journal, finding the most comfy position before opening the book on the first page. However no sooner had he settled down, the phone rang from inside the desk. Not his blackberry, his iphone, his contact with Moriarty. No doubt the man was ringing to taunt Sherlock further about how he planned to strike.

Sherlock threw the book down upon the table, causing his cup of coffee to slosh rather violently, and he strode over to the desk, opening the drawer and taking out the phone. As usual the number was withheld.

"Hello?" he began.

"Oh hello my dear!" sang Moriarty on the other end. He was taken aback. He hadn't expected the criminal to be doing his own dirty work; he tended to stay behind the curtain, using others as his puppets. It set off alarm bells in his head, and he was sure this conversation would be the same as the last one.

"What do you want?" Asked Sherlock in a hard and emotionless voice.

"Oh so cold Sherlock, what does it take to bring a little emotion into your voice?" Moriarty asked on the other end, sounding almost gleeful.

"I said what do you want?" he repeated in the same tone.

"I want to make you feel Sherlock, doesn't that sound like fun?"

"Not particularly. Nothing involving you sounds like fun."

"Oh this is fun!" Moriarty laughed manically. "I have a treat that you wouldn't be able to resist.

"What is that?" asked Sherlock, his voice sounding colder still.

"What would you say Sherlock, if I said I was already winning? That I've already began what I promised to do all that time ago in the swimming pool."

It took Sherlock a second to register what was being said to him. Moriarty was taunting him, trying to make him believe that he had murdered john, and that he had enjoyed it.

"I wouldn't believe you," answered Sherlock, although this time he voice didn't come out as certain as before.

"Ooh am I touching a nerve darling?" laughed Moriarty. "What if I told you that your heart is now in my hands? What if I were to cause pain to your heart?"

He heard footsteps then, followed by a sickening blow, by the sounds of it, to a man's abdomen. He didn't have to guess who the victim was, for John's cries of pain straight after each blow made him feel nauseous. After John cried out in pain for the third time, Sherlock could take no more.

"Enough," he barked down the phone, causing Moriarty to cease his beating and chuckle down the phone. "What do you want from me Jim, tell me now."

"We are going to play a game. You have ten hours to find John. No police of course, one sniff of the pigs and your pet becomes history. Oh and one last thing, for every hour he is in my company, someone dies, how fun is that!"

Sherlock growled. "What if I didn't care? He is just a colleague to me, nothing more." It almost broke him into pieces uttering those words, but he had to at least try and make Moriarty believe his threats were useless.

"Well then you won't mind if I torture him within an inch of his life will you," replied Moriarty, an agonizing scream became audible in the background. "Ten hours Sherlock Holmes, hope to see you soon!" he sang his reply like a true madman, before clicking off the phone.

Sherlock had to resist hurling the phone at the wall and sinking to his knees in despair. He had no time to grieve or show sorrow for the doctor, he had to save him at all costs. However he couldn't think straight, his head was swimming, the sound of johns cries repeating over and over in his head. He shook himself, knowing what he had to do to save John Watson.

He took out the sheets on Moriarty from out of his desk and scattered them all about the table so he could view them. He sat down and began to look over them with determined eyes, massaging his temple as he did so, trying to send more blood to his brain, to make it work faster.

He had to treat this case as any other, he couldn't allow himself to see john when he looked at those sheets. His time was already ticking away, and allowing himself to feel compassion and sentiment would only slow him down. He addressed the facts in his head.

_John Doe, mid-thirties, retired soldier_. _Kidnapped by Jim Moriarty. Threat level high, time limit. Possible explosives and snipers. No police._

As far as he could see, that's all he had. He had no idea how he was going to find Moriarty other than search every building in London. But there must be a clue hidden somewhere in these sheets of facts and case files, otherwise Moriarty would have given something to go on; otherwise it wouldn't be a game for him. Sherlock gritted his teeth and began to pour over the sheets in detail, yet trying to be as quick as possible, wanting to find Moriarty and prevent as many deaths as possible.


	47. The Bomb

24-1

John Watson found himself laying on a cold concrete floor with his hands still tied, and a bag still on his head. He couldn't hear much, just muffled conversation, he could only tell who the muffles belonged to because of Moriarty's Irish lilt and maniacal cackles. He half expected to be left there on the floor for good. However he knew that wasn't Moriarty's style, he would play games, he would make john suffer, and then he would kill him, just for the fun of it. He didn't understand why he was being brought into this. His kidnapping wouldn't make a difference, just like it hadn't before. All he wanted to do was protect Sherlock, he sincerely hoped he was alive, but he had absolutely no way of finding out.

His thoughts were interrupted by a sharp blow in his stomach. He felt the toe of Moriarty's dress shoes hit him square in the stomach, and he couldn't help but cry out in pain. The madman cackled louder, and continued to kick John hard for a second time, and then a third. He cried out each time, the pain making his head spin and his heart beat faster than he thought possible. He heard the muffled sounds of Moriarty walking away and returning back to his phone conversation. He wished he could hear what he was saying, maybe it could help him in some way, help him escape or save Sherlock. He felt frustrated more than angry that he had been kidnapped, but at the same time he felt a little relief that it was him and not Sherlock. He didn't think he would be able to handle it if he was the one safe at the flat and Sherlock had been in imminent danger.

Suddenly he was hauled up and shoved onto a chair, his hands placed behind the seat, and the bag pulled off his head. It took a while for his eyes to focus on his surroundings, he was still in pain, and a red haze clouded his vision. He blinked furiously until the suited criminal in front of him became clear.

"Oh don't pass out on me now Johnny boy," smirked Moriarty. "I'm only just getting started with the fun we are going to have."

John said nothing; instead he focused his energy on checking out his surroundings, looking around for possible escape routes. He noticed they were in a warehouse, similar to the one where he and Mycroft first crossed paths. He saw one door, the only visible exit. If he strained his eyes he could make out two packs at the side of the door, although he didn't know what they were. Above the door and stretching quite far into the warehouse were rafters, completely shadowed, which, thanks to confirmation by looking at his chest, housed several snipers aimed at him. He couldn't turn around to see what was behind him, but he had a feeling the man from the car was still in the room. He turned back to look Moriarty in the eyes who stood with his feet apart and hands plunged into his trouser pockets, wearing a tiresome expression.

"Figured out what's going on yet Doctor Watson?" he asked.

"No," he replied through gritted teeth. "I'm sure you are going to tell me."

"What's happening is that I'm going to destroy the both of you. One much sooner. You see that was Sherlock on the phone who was attempting to come rescue you. But by now, the semtex I planted in your flat this morning will have gone boom, blowing the meddlesome detective to smithereens!"

John had to struggle to keep consciousness again, confusion sweeping over him. Surely Moriarty must be lying, Sherlock couldn't possibly be dead.

"I don't believe you," growled john through gritted teeth.

"I would get my men to send over evidence, but I can't imagine there is much left," he smirked, as if he was struggling to contain another outbreak of laughter. "Don't worry though; I shall have men at the scene checking he was destroyed. And if not, a quick bullet in his pretty little head will do the trick."

John didn't know what to do. He struggled to contain the anger that was bubbling up inside him; he desperately wanted to lunge at Moriarty, to wrap his strong hands around the man's throat.

"Don't struggle know Johnny boy," warned Moriarty. "I've instructed these snipers to shoot to wound, not to kill. Me and you are going to have a little fun before I murder you."

"Why don't you just kill me now?"

"Like I said I want fun," he replied. "You must provide some sort of entertainment, otherwise why would Sherlock keep you around? What did he see in you?"

John hardly heard the words Moriarty was saying to him, his head was full of the sound of his heartbeat, his leg seared with pain, more painful that it had ever been after he left Afghanistan. He didn't know how to process the information that his companion was dead. He hadn't even registered the threats to his own person; all he could think of was the fact that Sherlock Holmes was no more, that he would never see him again. He tried to convince himself that Moriarty was lying, but why would he, when it's what he planned to do all along. He looked up and said the only thing he could.

"Killing people, what you do, who you are, is disgusting. Sherlock Holmes is twice the man you could ever be."

Moriarty's gaze turned sour and he shot his foot out, kicking the chair leg and sending it flying backwards. Johns head hit the concrete floor with a crack and the pain of the fall consumed him.

Moriarty leaned over and grabbed him by his face.

"Sherlock Holmes is a dead man John Watson, and don't worry, you shall be seeing him soon enough."

That was the last thing he heard, as Moriarty stood up and kicked him violently in the head, causing him to lose complete consciousness, making everything fade to black.


	48. Death Toll

24-2

It had been three hours since Moriarty had kidnapped John. Sherlock knew how long it had been down to the minute, because he couldn't help but become more and more frantic as time went by. He felt helpless and lost. His brain wasn't worked the way he intended it to, facts were coming out muddled, and his thoughts held no real correlation. Every second he wasted was a second away from catching Moriarty, a second away from seeing john alive again. He knew he couldn't trust that Moriarty wouldn't harm him, wouldn't torture him to death. He was that sort of man to take it a step too far, to go over the edge of a cliff and laugh while doing it.

After the first hour, Sherlock got an email. A young couple were on the news after mysterious toxins had leaked into their flat. The woman lay in the hospital in critical condition; however the man had previous health issues, and was found dead in the flat. Their deaths were being treated as suspicious, the deadly gas was unknown. The email was sent from an unknown source, signed off with '_9. Love, M xx'_. He had thrown his desk chair at the wall, leaving a considerable dint, before returning to his documents, even more determined. He expected Mrs Hudson to come up to ask what the loud bang was, but he heard no sound of her. He tried to return to the sheets of paper; sure his frantic attitude to the situation was clouding his judgement. He was trying to forget about John, trying to almost entirely erase Doctor Watson from his brain, but he worried himself, he knew that if he denied everything too much, he would forget why finding him was so important, why it meant so much to him. He pored over the documents again, determined to be calmer, to make his mind clearer. He was missing details, he was sure of it.

When the second hour passed, he received a text message.

_Turn on the news. Love, M xx_

He flicked on the TV, to see the breaking news story. Man shot dead in Leicester Square. Surrounded by thousands, out with his friends, yet nobody saw a thing. Police expect the killer was a trained marksman; they are appealing for information on the death. This time he threw nothing, instead he shouted and screamed, roared until his throat was so sore that no more noise could possible escape it. Mrs Hudson still didn't come up to see what all the noise was about. Perhaps she was out. Perhaps Moriarty had kidnapped her, even killed her. He didn't care at this stage, all he wanted was John. He went back to his board on the wall, trying to find a connection between all of the cases, looking at the dead ends, concentrating on every miniscule detail that he had collected from the previous cases he had linked to Moriarty. Something had to be wrong, something had to connect things. There was a detail he was missing, he was being stupid, acting careless, and crucial facts were getting away from him.

By the time the third hour passed Sherlock fell to his knees and wept. The alert came this time again by text, encouraging him to switch on the TV. A black cab had exploded on Regent Street. Ten people were in hospital, the cab driver was dead. Police weren't treating it as suspicious. He knew what they were really thinking; he could read it in their expressions. Three suspicious murders, three hours; terrorist attack, what else could it be. He almost laughed then, laughed at how clever Moriarty was being, he almost revelled in the man's genius until he was brought back down to earth and realised what was going on. It was then that he fell to his knees and wept. He knew he didn't have time for stupid sentimental emotions, but he was becoming frantic. His doctor was in the arms of a madman and he had no clue what to do, or where to find them. He sat there for fifteen minutes, all he would allow himself, and hugged his knees to his chest while fresh tears fell as if they would never stop. He had to give himself two minutes to compose himself and bring himself back into concentration mode. The episode had helped him slightly; he felt his mind was less blurred with potential grief and sadness. He stood up and composed himself quickly, wiping his face and smoothing down his shirt. He brought his laptop to his chair and began to research anything which might help provide a clue. Any odd occurrences, anything like that could be potentially helpful, and he had to try anything.

He knew he should be grieving for those who had been murdered; he knew it was a human thing to do. But as usual human traits had slipped by him and he felt no emotion for them. There was nothing he could have done to prevent their deaths, as he was sure there was no way he could solve this puzzle any quicker. Moriarty was taunting him terribly, trying to get him to crack, to break, but he resisted. Not that the urge wasn't intensifying by the second. He had to again black everything from his mind, he had to think in terms of _John Doe_ again, but of course, it was still _John_, and he knew that it was still his John that could be lying somewhere half dead. He would carry on searching; he would scour every clue possible until something turned up. The past had to hold some sort of information, there was no other explanation. Sherlock would not let John die. He did not care for anybody else, and at this moment in time nothing else in the world concerned him, other than the intense need to ensure that John Watson was safe and alive.


	49. Taunting

25-1

John could taste blood when he regained consciousness. He heard no sounds around him, so he kept his eyes shut, pretending, concealing the fact he was awake. He had to plan something, and to do that, he tried to think like Sherlock. He knew that there were at least three snipers above him aimed ready to shoot and wound him. Then there was the mysterious man, who was much stronger than john, and would no doubt beat him in a hands on fight. Moriarty to him didn't post that much of a problem. Sure he was incredibly clever, but he didn't dirty his hands, everything else was done by someone else, he would probably run away from a physical challenge, especially with John, who was trained in combat. His handcuffs posed a serious problem, for he had neither the knowledge nor the tools to unpick the lock and free himself. Having his hands behind his back would pose a serious problem when it came to confrontation. He was also aware he was in the middle of an empty warehouse with no cover to hide behind, making stealth very difficult. He could possibly hide amongst the shadows, but he had no idea how to get from his obvious position into a secure hiding place. Then his last obstacle of the warehouse: the door. He had seen packages on both side, and knowing Moriarty nothing good could come of them, and they most likely could somehow put an end to johns escape whatever they were.

His mental escape plan was brought to an abrupt halt by a slap across the face. His cheek burned with pain and his eyes snapped open to see Moriarty grinning at him.

"Wakey wakey Johnny boy, it's time to chat!"

A chair had appeared in front of John and Moriarty proceeded to sit on it. He sat like a true gentleman, ankles crossed, hands folded in his lap. He could have fooled anyone into thinking he was a fine, respectable human being, but of course john knew different, he knew the horrific things the man was capable of.

He heard footsteps behind him and he felt a large hand clap on his shoulder, digging in considerably, irritating his bullet wound, and causing him to grind his teeth with pure discomfort. He assumed it was the man from the car, who he took to be Moriarty's personal hitman of some sort, or at least something along those lines. He did most of the dirty work for Moriarty, and was probably working with him during the previous cases Sherlock and him had solved.

"We're going to talk Johnny, nothing more," said Moriarty. "Let's have a nice civilised conversation. Of course if you start to misbehave, my associate here will cause a considerable amount of pain to you, so play nice."

"Why are you under the impression that pain would matter to me?" asked john.

"Because," smiled Moriarty. "I lied earlier, you know I lied. I told you that your owner had gone up like a firework, but you knew it wasn't true from the beginning; I would have had much more of a severe reaction from you if you had truly believed it. Play nice or Sherlock Holmes will endure a painful and drawn out death, by your hands"

John then lunged forward at him, their heads missing by inches, john almost deploying a cracking head butt upon the man. He was pulled back by the man behind him, and struck across the face for his attack. Of course he knew Sherlock was alive. He knew all along that Moriarty wouldn't do something so crazy, not just yet. The man had a plan for both of them, and he knew just straight out murdering Sherlock wouldn't provide enough satisfaction for Jim Moriarty.

"There we go!" said Moriarty clapping his hands together. "Trivial human emotion, now that's what I like to see! First question, what are you and Sherlock?"

"Colleagues. Flatmates." John answered sharply, feeling angry that he was being forced into this conversation.

Moriarty leaned forward, resting one elbow on his knee and a knuckle upon his chin and began to study John's face. The detective cursed silently. Of course Moriarty knew how to read people like a book, he was almost as clever as Sherlock, and it was obvious now that he too would have such frustrating abilities.

"You love him," stated Moriarty, causing john to bubble with anger. "No, I'm wrong. Not yet, but you almost do, oh how cute John, not even I saw this coming!"

"Just tell me what you want Moriarty."

The madman leaned back in his chair and resumed his gentlemanly pose.

"I wanted you and that stupid detective to leave me and my work alone, but you couldn't could you? You both just had to keep digging, had to keep searching for clues. So I am going to end you both."

Moriarty jumped up looking positively insane. He plunged a hand into the inside of his suit jacket, and pulled out a switchblade. He flicked it up and took two steps towards john, closing the distance in-between them so their faces were uncomfortably close. Moriarty then proceeded to drag the blade across john's cheek, causing him to hiss loudly with pain.

"You just couldn't leave me alone," he growled, spit hitting john in the face. They were so close john could see every detail on the man's face, every perfection and every flaw. "What I'm going to do john, is turn you into a jigsaw, cut you into tiny pieces. And while you sit in this chair, whimpering pathetically and bleeding to death, Sherlock Holmes will bravely come running through that door, and be blown into tiny little pieces by the bombs surrounding the door. Bye-bye to the annoying little duo!"

He stood back to clap his hands with glee like the madman he was, only to return to johns fresh facial wound, carving his knife in deeper. John sat there, taking the pain, refusing to cry out, and he wondered to himself, if he would ever get out of here alive, or if Lestrade would find his remains amongst the exploded building next to Sherlock Holmes.


	50. Consequences

25-2

Twenty minutes into the internet search, Sherlock began to tear out his own hair. It was a sort of coping mechanism, not something he had tried before. He was frustrated, incredibly so, and his time kept running out. If this was before john, he would pump himself full of cocaine and run off the buzz. But he couldn't bring himself to do that, not after he had made a promise. Besides, he was sure it wouldn't help, he needed to be sharp and for his brain to be clear. When he was high he felt numb, the thoughts whizzing around his brain just melted into nothingness. That's why he did it, that's why he did the cocaine, to soothe his ever working brain, to stop himself from having a meltdown from which he could not return. So instead of using substances, he took to hurting himself to try and soothe his anger. At every dead end, every wrong turn, another clump of his thick curls fell to the floor, he had a feeling he would end up bald before he found John. He had always been a vain man, took care in his appearance, but not religiously so, just enough that he was aesthetically pleasing to all. He knew he didn't have to try hard though, he had incredibly desirable cheekbones, a toned figure, attractive eyes, and he had beautiful hair. He was sure he would weep when he caught sight of himself in the mirror after mutilating himself, yet still he couldn't help it, it was almost as if he was punishing himself for letting such a thing happen to john.

It was his entire fault after all, he should have never even moved in with john, let alone find himself attached to the man. People around him, get destroyed. It had never happened like this before, but from past experience, he knew death wasn't the only way to destroy a man. He had seen people try to get close to him, become infatuated, interested, and eventually obsessed. Obsession always let to a downfall, always created a person broken, sometimes beyond repair. He knew this, so why did he let john come into his life, why did he let john become infatuated with him? The answer was quite simple really: he became infatuated first. And he would rather be a broken man, than be a man who had never met John Watson at all.

His research online was utterly useless, just more dead ends, and more hair pulling, it wasn't providing any information, just making Sherlock angrier than he had ever felt. He knew he had only one more option left at this stage, and that was to call the man with a thousand eyes. The person who saw everything in this city, and who most definitely saw everything that John and Sherlock did outside the flat. He knew that he was in the country, there was too many political factors going on for him to be elsewhere. And he knew that he would have people watching, because that's the sort of thing he did. He took his blackberry out of his pocket, and stood up, scrolling through the contacts, until he reached the name he desired, and pressed call. He answered on the third ring, predictable as always.

"Hello brother, what do I owe this pleasure?"

"Moriarty has john," he muttered, regretting that he had to turn to Mycroft for help. "I need you to find him."

"Well anything I can do to be of service," he replied. "I couldn't tell you anything from today for at least a few hours though."

Sherlock growled with frustration. "That's no good, I have no time. What about when john has been away from the flat in the past seven days, has anything odd been picked up? Someone following him, he mentioned that."

Mycroft seemed to be muttering to someone near him, and Sherlock's patience was wearing thin.

"There was something," he stated to Sherlock. "Almost a week ago, John got in a cab ended up in canary wharf; we tracked him down an industrial area, near a warehouse. We assumed he was meeting either you or Lestrade. He walked back about half an hour later, didn't follow the cab."

"Text me the address. Now." Sherlock hung up the phone and went over to his desk. As soon as the text came through, he inserted the address into his mobile GPS, and wrote it down on a piece of paper for good measure. He didn't even have time to put on his coat however, before the phone rang, the iphone.

"What?" answered Sherlock, tired with exchanging pleasantries with a psychopath.

"Naughty boy Sherlock, breaking my rules," said Moriarty on the other end.

"I broke no rules, you said I could not contact the police, and I haven't," he replied calmly.

"Oh police, government it's all the same! If you're not going to play fair, neither will I," he said, in a chilling tone.

"What have you done," growled Sherlock. His head began to swim again with concerns for john's safety.

"Don't worry, john is alive for now. That can't be said for your little mortician though. The thing is, keeping a girlfriend is so dull, and I just had to _blow her off!"_

Sherlock couldn't find the words to answer Moriarty.

"Six hours Sherlock Holmes and I am getting bored!" he sang, hanging up on the detective.

Sherlock was immeasurably angry. Molly didn't deserve to die; she was a good girl, kind, helpful. He couldn't help but drift back to his previous thoughts, about how people around him always get hurt. Molly was infatuated with him to the point of obsession, and now she was gone, wiped off this earth by her connections to a madman, and he wasn't thinking of Jim Moriarty.

He shrugged on his coat; he regrettably had no time to grieve for poor Molly. He had the address from Mycroft, he knew where John was, and he was going to waste no more time.


	51. Last Move

26-1

Consciousness was escaping John, but he had a terrible feeling that if he allowed himself to black out, he would not wake up. He was bleeding everywhere. His shirt which had been ripped open allowed cold air to hit his chest, which now stung with the intricate patterns that had been carved everywhere, and the sound of his own blood dripping on the floor made him feel nauseous. However he forced himself to feel the pain of his wounds, to embrace the sting of air hitting him, in an effort to stay awake. He knew what he had to do, and that was stopping Sherlock from killing himself. He had a plan, not a very nice one, but the only thing he could think of. He was going to make a dash for the door, and set off the bombs. He would blow the whole warehouse to smithereens, taking himself with it. He saw it as the only way, the absolute only option. A world without John Watson would just go on living, as if nothing happened. His family would grieve, but they didn't even expect him to come out of the war alive. Sherlock would be sad, but he would move on quick enough. A world without Sherlock Holmes would stop dead. To john, he was what kept the earth spinning, the reason people felt safe, as much as he tried to deny he was one, to john Sherlock was a hero.

He looked around him, scouting out the warehouse. Moriarty and the other man had been gone for at least ten minutes, he had neither seen nor heard either of them, and he assumed that they were attending to some sort of business which was keeping them occupied. The snipers were still up in the rafters. He assumed there must be a team of them up there, taking shifts; it would be very difficult for someone to hold a target for this long. He did hope however, that they were not doing shifts, meaning their concentration would be lacking, meaning he might just make it to the door before being shot dead.

He slowly eased his arms upwards, as quietly as possible, not wanting to alert any attention towards his actions. He kept as silent as he could, thankful for his military stealth training that he thought he might never use again. He had to ready himself for the next step, both mentally and physically. He had to run the two-hundred yards to the door, knowing that his death lay at the end of it. He put a brave face on, taking two deep breaths to prepare himself.

In one swift movement, he sprang forward, and sprinted towards the door, nothing else on his mind apart from reaching that door. Anything else after than meant nothing, it was trivial. As he sprinted his head was filled with nothing but determination. As he passed the halfway mark he sped up. The end was in sight and he began to speed up, thinking he would reach the end. His positive thoughts were cut down with sound of a bullet heading straight for him. It was if he saw everything in slow motion, danger always heightened his senses. He saw the bullet in the corner of his eyes; he even saw the red light as the sniper took aim. He didn't have time to duck though, to move out of the way, and he was hit in the face, grazing his cheek, scraping across his cheekbone and shooting through his ear. It wasn't the blistering pain that made him sink to his knees; it was the memories of Afghanistan that brought him the most pain. The minute the bullet hit his skin, everything flooded back to him, he remembered being shot the first time, he remembered all the men that died, and just like that, the entire trauma came back. He fell to his knees and swayed, his body threatening to collapse entirely.

He heard footsteps running behind him and was dragged back to the chair. He paid no attention to anything other than the pulsating on his cheek, and the stars dazzling in front of his eyes. He was hauled up back on the seat as darkness began to creep over his vision. He was dealt a blow across his face, to force him to stay awake. He looked up to see the other man looming over him, a menacing look on his face. From behind him stepped Moriarty, no longer smiling.

"Oh you stupid man," he sneered as he stepped closer to John. "Couldn't just be a good little boy could you."

This time is was Moriarty who struck john across the fact, causing the doctor to hiss loudly in pain.

"I'm not going to let Sherlock walk into your death trap," he snarled, wincing as he did so.

Moriarty's trademark smirk returned. "I can do whatever I want Johnny boy and you can't stop me, nobody can you hear me, nobody! I'm a god, I am completely invincible. Everyone else is so stupid, so dull, just a pawn in my little game."

John wished he could fight, wished he had the strength left to fight Moriarty, he would just love to pummel the little man right into the ground. But he had lost too much blood, was still losing too much, and he knew soon it was make him pass out, and we wouldn't wake up. His last ditch attempt had been a failure, and now Sherlock would walk into his death. John hoped he wouldn't come, but he knew he would, how could he resist Moriarty playing sitting ducks? He closed his eyes, just for a second, praying that both his and Sherlock's ends would at least come quickly, because at least if he couldn't prevent Sherlock's demise, he could pray that he wouldn't feel pain.


	52. Revenge

26-2

Sherlock had jumped into the first cab he could flag down, and jumped in, throwing three-hundred pounds at the cab driver. He told him to drive above the speed limit, as fast as he could go, just as long as he got to the destination he had given him in under ten minutes. The driver told Sherlock unless he calmed down he wasn't taking him anywhere. He settled himself into the back of the cab and tried to control his breathing, tried to act like a normal human being. He didn't want to act normal, pretend as if his best friend wasn't in mortal danger. He wanted to be there right now, to save him.

He had hoped that Moriarty didn't know he was coming, the element of surprise always helped in situations like this. Sherlock was armed, and he was more than ready to kill. Every single person in that room who had harmed John Watson would pay with their life, because they had made it personal. Crimes are fun; serial killers are clever and fascinating. But he is just someone observing from a distance, solving and staying unattached. But when he is attached, when the case is a life or death situation for him and someone he cares about, what little morals he has left go out of the window. Lestrade will most definitely kill him; try locking him away for years, blacklisting him from ever working again. He smiled at the thought, smiled because he knew he was too clever, and deep down, Lestrade would be grateful that this madman was off the streets. The revolver in his pocket did not feel heavy as it should, but it felt comforting, it felt as if it was the solution to all of Sherlock's problems, tied up in a neat metal casing.

The cab roughly turned a corner, and he had to hold on to stop himself falling over onto the seat. He had not bothered to buckle his seatbelt, he intended to jump out of the cab while it was still moving, and he had no time to waste. He gripped onto the door handle tightly with a leather clad hand, his skin actually stinging with the amount of pressure he was putting on himself. He was doing it again, the pain thing. He knew he couldn't exactly sit in the back of a taxi tugging at his hair, so instead he caused pain to his hands, although he didn't find it nearly as satisfactory. Instead he removed his hand and placed it under his coat. He used his fingers to feel around the bandage binding his chest and wormed them underneath, applying pressure to his broken ribs. He had to resist making noises as he dug his fingers deeper, wincing at the pain he was causing himself. Yet he found it welcoming, calming also, but at the same time it kept his mind sharp. He wanted to punish himself. Even if John didn't end up dead, he would be traumatised; he would have been subjected to physical and mental violence knowing Moriarty. He would be returned to him broken, and that was his entire fault, he deserved to suffer for the suffering he had caused his flatmate. Though each time he dug into his broken bones, he felt more determined to succeed, to have john in his arms again, maybe even to tell him those words he had hesitated to mention before. Previously they had seemed so trivial, as if he had a lifetime to tell John what he was feeling, but now he realised how stupid that was. His whole life was untold danger and uncertainty; never for a second should he have assumed that he would have had all the time in the world to do something.

He watched outside of the windows as they turned down a street, heading towards his destination.

"Stop," commanded Sherlock, not even waiting for the cab driver to come to a complete halt before throwing himself out of the taxi. He didn't want the cars arrival to alert any attention and give away his arrival. He knew which warehouse was the one he was aiming for, thanks for Mycroft's accurate description in the text. He mentally reminded himself to begrudgingly thank his brother after all this, as he knew that without his brother's weird hobby of surveillance he would have never been able to find Moriarty's location.

He edged closer to the building, finding a comfortable hiding place in-between the buildings. Here he could see in at an angle, he had to adjust his position slightly to get more of a central view. From his first spot, he had noticed the packages surrounding the doors. Clearly explosives, Jim Moriarty's favourite tool. The next thing he noticed was the red dots hovering over the packages, indicating snipers were aimed and ready to shoot the second someone walking within spitting distance of those packages. He knew that he would have to dispose of them if he wanted to get in alive. He saw only two targets, but he had a feeling more could be hidden.

When he moved to his second position, he could see john. The man was too far back for Sherlock to see any real detail; all he knew was that he was seated. Behind john stood a man he did not recognise, he was tall and burly, he had the look of a personal guard about him. Sherlock would have to take him out too. Then, pacing up and down in front of John he saw his main target, Jim Moriarty. He didn't want to kill Jim, it wouldn't satisfy him. He wasn't the man caught, put behind bars. A bullet to the brain wouldn't provide enough vengeance.

He stalked closer to the warehouse, drawing out his gun. He aimed steadily and carefully, following the red targets up higher into the roof. He had to make these shots count; otherwise it would be the end for him and John. It would be the end of everything.


	53. The Final Move

27-1

Sherlock took two, slow deep breaths before focusing on his aim and fired two clear shots up into the warehouse, successfully hitting his target. The fact he knew he could not afford to miss in the slightest probably helped his aim. He knew his shots has been successful when he saw the two red targets fall. He didn't have time to be proud of his accuracy, instead he moved forward, firing a shot at the large man who stood a metre to the left of john. The bullet hit his intended target, but he cursed out loud when he realised he hadn't shot the man dead as he intended to. Instead, the bullet had hit the man in the leg, causing him to fall to the ground with impact.

Sherlock then hurried forward, his gun held firmly, pointing at Moriarty and nothing else. He would not take his aim off Moriarty now, shooting the man dead was his main priority. He knew he couldn't even afford to look behind to see his friend, he couldn't face the guilt he would endure, and the emotions it would force him to feel. Instead he kept his eyes clapped on Moriarty, who had taken a step forward so that he was in line with Sherlock, plunging his hands in his pockets, a disturbingly creepy smile forming on his face.

"The game is up Moriarty," stated Sherlock, gripping the gun tightly between his slender fingers.

"Clever you!" he replied, jumping slightly with glee. "Just think, I _almost_ killed you!"

"You never intended to," Sherlock replied curtly. "Are you forgetting I can read you like a book? This game of yours may be vicious and criminally insane, but you never intend to murder me."

"Quite right," he nodded. "You are much to fun for me to dispose of, who else would I play with?"

Sherlock then began to put his previous plan into motion. A bluff, a very dangerous move, that he was willing on going through with if absolutely necessary. He turned around his revolver from Moriarty, instead placing the barrel against his temple. The barrel felt cool against his skin, and he applied reasonable pressure, as if he was forcing his brain to not forget the gun he was pressing against it. He saw Moriarty's eyes widen with confusion and shock, his move was definitely not anticipated.

"What if I took myself out of the picture, destroyed your fun once and for all, took it all away from you?" Asked Sherlock dryly. "Because I am more than willing to do exactly that if any harm comes to Doctor Watson and if you do not turn yourself in."

The former smile creeped back onto Moriarty's face. "Oh clever Sherlock, even I didn't see that little move coming, well done! What makes you think it will make a difference? Johnny doesn't have much time left you know, hes lost a lot of blood."

Moriarty paused, as if he was expecting Sherlock to look at johns slumped figure, but instead he kept his gaze fixed on the criminal, refusing to allow himself a glimpse of john.

"Oh go on Sherlock," he sneered. "Look into your lovers eyes, look at the state ive left him in. I got rather carried away you know, he'll be dead in half an hour."

Sherlock couldn't help it. He had to look. But he didn't look directly at john, instead he directed his gaze to the pool of blood collected on the floor, dripping steadily, the flow not slowly. The sight of johns blood dripping out of him made Sherlock want to vomit. Moriarty was right, at this rate, john would die very soon. He was surprised the doctor was even conscious, but he pegged that down to adrenaline more than anything. The gunshots and sight of Sherlock probably were prompting him to stay awake. He returned his gaze to Moriarty, gritting his teeth with sheer annoyance.

"This game has gotten dull pretty quickly," Sherlock scoffed in an attempt to taunt Moriarty. "You know I have been tracked by the government, and that both them and the police will arrive in haste to throw you in jail. Give it up. Give me John."

Moriarty looked at him like a sad little puppy, like a child whose favourite toy had just been taken away from them. He said nothing, just stared at Sherlock with sadness. He knew why, he had disappointed the criminal. He had willingly admitted he was going to turn the man over to the authorities instead of fulfilling a personal vendetta.

"What about what I did to jonh?" Moriarty asked, his voice surprisingly small, almost pleading, until he shook himself up, became the man Sherlock knew him as. "I made him scream you know, he screamed as I carved into his skin. I made him almost weep when I shot him and reminded poor little john Watson of the war. I broke him Sherlock, I did it before you got the chance. I won."

It took every fibre of Sherlock's being to not launch himself at Moriarty then and pummel him into the ground. Moriarty had picked up on one think Sherlock had feared; the fact that he would break john Watson completely.

In the distance, Sherlock heard sirens whirring, clearly headed in this direction. His brother was clever enough to track him closely after their conversation, clever enough to realise Sherlock was potentially walking to his death. They both stood in silence, staring furiously at each other, like they were both engaged in a deadly game of chess, trying to anticipate the opponents move.

"I will escape, you know that," stated Moriarty.

Sherlock knew it was obvious.

"And then what?" he asked. "Youll come after john and me again, the game will never end?"

"Oh dont be so boring!" exclaimed Moriarty. "I have other interests my dear, although none as devilish as you! Of course I will play with you again, but dont be so conceited to think you are all I care about Sherlock holmes. I am a god compared you you. You and your doctor are pathetic little dots on my radar."

Sherlock knew he was lying. It wasn't the fact he could read his subtle body language, it was that he knew how terribly equal they were. Knowing it was an unneeded precaution still, he moved the gun away from his temple and pointed it back at Moriarty's head, a silent warning that he would not escape the police. Moriarty only laughed, laughing at the fact he had still won, he would always win.


	54. The End

27-2

As the swat team surrounded everyone, neither of the geniuses moved, Sherlock still pointing the gun at Moriarty's head. He couldn't help but smile as the police officers swarmed the building, arresting the snipers, arresting the presumed bodyguard, and surrounding Sherlock and Moriarty. Perhaps they weren't aware who the criminal was, or perhaps they were informed that Sherlock was just as dangerous as the madman. Lestrade walked into the building, dressed in protective apparel, brandishing a pistol. Most of the officers in the building weren't permitted to have firearms, but Sherlock was sure Mycroft would make sure any evidence they did would be conveniently lost.

"Drop the gun Sherlock," said Lestrade, also pointing his weapon at Moriarty. "We've got him."

Sherlock cocked his head to one side, but still didn't lower his weapon.

"This will never happen again," he pointed out, nodding in John's direction.

Moriarty smiled at him. "It doesn't matter what you think. The game has been won, and I am the winner as I will always be."

"How so?" asked Sherlock, genuinely puzzled to what he meant.

Moriarty could see that Sherlock was perplexed, his grin widening at the realisation.

"The thing is Sherlock, nobody ever gets to me, nobody ever will. But good old Johnny boy got to you didn't he, got to you good. Managed to worm his way into that cold heart of yours like a disgusting little creature. Sleep on that Sherlock and just remember that I've won, and I always will."

Sherlock stood almost frozen not knowing how to respond to the painful truth. Instead he lowered his gun, holding his arm outstretched a signal that an officer could take the gun from him and take away Moriarty. Lestrade was the one who handcuffed him, and Sherlock could help but watch as his enemy was escorted away, looking like he was about to burst into a fit of giggles.

As soon as he had left the building Sherlock dived for John. He fumbled in his pocket and retrieved a lock pick, working quickly at removing John's handcuffs. His breath hitched when he finally got a good look at John. The doctor lay slumped on the chair, bleeding heavily. His shirt was ripped open, and raw wounds absolutely covered his chest. Sherlock automatically ripped off his scarf, pressing the material hard into John's chest in an attempt to stop the bleeding. With his other hand he took hold of one of John's wrists to examine the damage. The sore, bloody marks made it obvious that John had struggled against his restraints. He gently dropped John's wrist, and used a single finger to lift Johns head up. The doctor was conscious, and he smiled feebly at Sherlock. It was then that Sherlock had to resist the urge to run out and shoot Moriarty in the face, when he saw Johns cheekbone protruding, his swollen eye, and his bust lip. Sherlock's had to stop his lip quivering as he brushed a gloved finger softly across Johns chin.

Are you okay, John? Can you speak? Tell me exactly what has he done to you?" Sherlock asked desperately. His head was spinning, he knew paramedics stood behind them both, but he couldn't bear to have John in their care without him knowing first.

"Never mind that, what in god's name have you done to your hair," John said weakly, managing a pained smile as he feebly lifted up his arms, and his ran his fingers through Sherlock's ruined locks.

Sherlock couldn't help but smile himself. Even in complete times of ruin, John was still himself, still completely loyal, more concerned with Sherlock than himself, even though he was the one who had just been tortured. Sherlock knew he would never regret the next words to escape his lips.

"I love you," he whispered, barely audible, yet he knew from Johns smiling eyes that he heard him crystal clear. There was no reply, and Sherlock was almost grateful for that, an emotional exchange would have been embarrassing and unneeded; sentiment expressed towards him was never welcomed.

The next few hours went by Sherlock in a blur. For the first time in as long as he could remember, he shut his brain down. He allowed the gentle buzzing of human life take over him, he thought of nothing, he felt nothing, he just held Johns hand and didn't let go, not once, not for nothing or anybody. When the doctors needed to stitch John up they tried to get him to leave. He found them ridiculous, they could do a fine job with him still there, and he wasn't in the way. John would not know what it was like to be away from Sherlock, to be in pain because of him; ever again, he was sure of that.

Sherlock paid no attention to events that happened. Lestrade and Donovan came in to collect statements, Sherlock gave his in a dull, bored tone, while John spent a long time explaining, describing what had happened to him. Sherlock wished he couldn't listen, wished it had never happened. Of course he couldn't help it, as much as he tried, as much as he increased the buzzing sound in his head, certain words got through. Nurses and doctors came and attended to John, he had stitches, needed a blood transfusion, needed painkillers and antibiotics. Mycroft came by, Sherlock remembered telling him sharply to leave, and then he didn't remember what became of him. He even sat patiently as John slept for three and a half hours after his medication was administered

Finally, after what seemed like days later, Sherlock and John were alone, and both were coherent. Sherlock had ensured John was in a private and comfortable room, he wouldn't have it any other way for him. While John had been sleeping, he had plenty of time to think over things. John woke before Sherlock realised, his head still a mixture of buzzing and remembrance.

"You okay Sherlock?" John asked, sounding more concerned than Sherlock would have liked. He snapped out of his thoughtful state immediately, focusing all his attention back on John.

"You needn't be concerned about me, I'm fine," he replied, slightly squeezing John's hand. "Are you feeling alright now you have had adequate medical attention?"

"Sort of, but Sherlock, there's something I should say."

Sherlock swallowed. "Look if it's about that thing I said before we got bundled into the ambulance..."

John cut him off. "No it's not about that. It's about what Moriarty said to you, about how I _got to you_. Maybe I have done more harm than good."

Sherlock gripped onto John hard now, too hard, his own fingers ached, and johns must have too.

"Don't you dare," he growled. "If it wasn't for you, well maybe that would be me, maybe I would be the heartless one torturing wonderful doctors. Don't you ever blame yourself for making me a better man."

John nodded slowly, using his other hand to remove Sherlock's iron grip and instead place the detectives hand softly between his own.

"Oh and Sherlock," John said smiling. "I love you too."

* * *

><p><em><strong>AN: I would just like to take the time to say thank you to everyone who has read this, reviewed this, encouraged me on tumblr and just everyone for being amazing! Its been an absolute blast, i have loved writing this and i hope you have enjoyed reading it too!**_


	55. Epilogue

_**A/N: Of course i couldn't stay away, so i wrote a nice little epilogue! I hope you all enjoy it, its just a nice bit of fluff to make you all warm and fuzzy inside! After mention from a few people im considering writing a few One-Shot stories based off this fic, so expect them in the future, as well as other stories! Enjoy!**_

* * *

><p>Epilogue<p>

It had been one-hundred and eight days since johns kidnap. Sherlock now lay next to the sleeping doctor wide awake, playing softly with his hair so as not to wake him. It was early morning, dawn had just broken, yet Sherlock had been awake for hours. He did sleep better these days though, but he still enjoyed watching his partner sleep.

Things had changed a lot in the period of time. Both of them were able to feel comfort, to not fear for their lives every day. Soon after Moriarty had been captured, he escaped as promised. He was seen a day later boarding a plane to Germany, but authorities were unable to reprimand him. Sherlock had discovered the other man in the warehouse to be Sebastian Moran, an ex military man with the potential to be highly dangerous. Sherlock had not worried though; he was under Moriarty's command and wouldn't strike with his boss being out of the country.

This with john and Sherlock were a lot different now too. They were both more comfortable with each other, and of course, everybody now knew the nature of their relationship. A week ago, Sherlock had even brought up making their partnership official and john didn't object to the idea. This pleased him, he liked the idea of making john completely his, and becoming johns. He could hardly say they were living in domestic bliss though, many times, things between them were still just as volatile as ever. John still continues to profusely object to Sherlock's experiments, and of course, Sherlock continued to ignore him. All of john's possessions had been moved downstairs quite a while ago, and john had demanded that Sherlock now use the upstairs room to conduct him experiments. Sherlock had hoped he could somehow persuade john to take an interest in such matters, but he had no such luck.

John still continued to work at the clinic, and Sherlock continued to work for Scotland Yard, and he was glad they both had hobbies to occupy themselves. From time to time a particularly interesting case would come by him, or a desperate private customer would drop by, and Sherlock requested John's assistance, which the doctor always eagerly agreed to help out with.

John stirred in his sleep and Sherlock snapped out of his daze. He slid further down the bed, burying his face into John's hair, knowing the doctor would be waking up any time soon.

Sure enough, John's eyes fluttered open and he stretched in the catlike manner which Sherlock was so fond of.

"Morning," purred Sherlock, kissing john softly on the head.

John moved so he could see and speak to Sherlock directly. A small scowl had formed on his face.

"Please tell me you have slept Sherlock," he frowned.

Sherlock let out a deep sigh. He would never get used to Johns constant nagging and apparent concern for his welfare.

"Of course I slept, I woke up about an hour ago," he answered, slightly exaggerating. He had been awake around four hours, but he knew it was best not to inform john of that.

John seemed to relax, the frown quickly melting off his face. He lifted his arm and began to make his fingers dance lightly across Sherlock's chest. The touch made him shiver, Johns fingers felt incredible on his skin.

"I hope you are not trying to seduce me Doctor Watson," he chuckled.

John stopped moving his fingers, instead resting his palm flat on Sherlock's chest.

"Not at all," he replied. "Just saying good morning, that's all."

Sherlock smiled and shuffled closer to john, resting in the man's chest, kissing his neck softly as he did so.

"Either way, I don't mind," he murmured. "As long as I get to wake up next to you."

"There was a time when I thought that might not happen," said john, holding Sherlock tightly to him.

The detective had to force himself not to tense up; knowing john had been referring to Moriarty. They had been in some dangerous scraps since then, but nothing so life threatening as that. He knew how john felt; the terror of the whole situation almost broke him, which was of course Moriarty's intention.

"I wouldn't ever let that happen again john," he whispered softly into the mans chest, sending vibrations through his skin. "I will protect you with my life, always."

John hummed with approval, tracing his rough fingers up and dong Sherlock's spine, which the detective thoroughly appreciated.

"No matter what cases we take, I don't want them to ever get in between us," stated john. "I don't want either of us to risk our lives."

"Understood." Replied Sherlock. "Some things cannot be avoided though."

"The only person who will be harming you is me when you destroy the flat, or set fire to my clothes," growled john, but playfully.

Sherlock chucked. "Very well then, I will let nobody other than you murder me."

Sherlock could feel johns lips pull into a smile as they were pressed deeper into his hair.

"Don't forget it" murmured john. "I wouldn't want my future partner killed before we've even signed the papers."

Sherlock's ears pricked up at this. He had to make sure john was saying what he assumed he was.

"Do you mean..."

John replied with a nod and a firm kiss on the top of Sherlock's head, pulling him in for a tighter embrace. Sherlock stayed silent, not wanting his stunted social skills to ruin the moment. The thought of john Watson agreeing to marry him made him feel absolutely ecstatic, even more so the way it had been so casually mentioned. He was never one for drawn out sentimental words, neither was John. This way was so much smoother and easier. Sherlock expected the whole affair to be quiet and quick, but he really didn't mind, he preferred it that way. As long as he got the chance to properly call john his own, nothing else in-between mattered.

Still silent, Sherlock broke their embrace and lifted his head up to meet johns. He placed a tender kiss upon the doctor's lips, wrapping his arms around his waist.

They stayed like that for a long time, the detective and the doctor. They had no enemies, no fears, and no doubts. They just had the exhilarating work during the day and each other completely, during the night. And neither man could ever want for more.


End file.
